LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


SERTRANC 
14O  P: 


V 


, 
'    V. 


H  1Ro\>d 


BY 

ANNIE    ELIOT 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1893 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

S.  R.  T. 


WHITE    BIRCHES 


CHAPTER   I 

"  Speak,  I  am  bound  to  hear." 

1 '  We  stand  in  the  heart  of  things. 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim  ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs 
The  thread  of  water." 

THE  clump  of  aspens  across  the  field  quivered  in  the 
breeze,  their  dancing  leaves,  turning  now  this  way  and  now 
that,  reminding  him  more  than  ever  of  the  advertisements  of 
Ivory  Soap  in  the  shop-windows.  Dreamily  he  watched 
them,  half  expecting  to  read  "It  floats"  as  they  twinkled 
hither  and  thither.  Where  was  it  there  was  one  of  those 
signs  ?  At  the  corner  store  in  the  village.  It  was  an  ex 
traordinarily  metropolitan  acquisition  for  the  corner  store, 
and  the  "Ivory  Soap"  winked  itself  into  "  It  floats  "  just  as 
you  reached  the  church-gate,  and  imparted  a  slightly  super 
natural  charm  to  the  dress-braid  and  lemon  candy  in  the 
window  under  it.  It  was  a  curious  thing — that  effect  of 
changing  the  angle  of  observation  —  he  wondered  if  he 
changed  his  angle  of  observation  of  those  aspen-trees — and 
with  a  slight  groan  of  pain  he  sank  back  again  on  the 
deep  moss.  He  must  have  been  getting  a  bit  sleepy,  his 
i 


2  WHITE    BIRCHES 

mind  wandered  off  so  easily  into  all  sorts  of  absurd  direc 
tions.  It  was  partly  the  plashing  of  the  waterfall  that 
soothed  him ;  that  unlucky  waterfall  that  he  had  come  up 
to  see.  It  was  worth  seeing,  to  be  sure,  and,  crossing  his 
arms  under  his  head,  he  turned  away  from  the  aspens  and 
looked  back  at  it  where  it  pitched  forward  over  the  cliff  and 
fell  uncertainly  downward  forty  or  fifty  feet,  catching  here 
and  there  on  projecting  rocks,  laughing  meanwhile  at  its 
own  temerity.  Worth  seeing,  to  be  sure,  but  hardly  at 
the  cost  of  twisting  his  confounded  leg.  He  wondered 
what  the  deuce  he  had  done  to  his  leg  anyhow.  He  had 
passed  the  period  of  thinking  he  could  make  his  way  back 
unaided,  which  had  been  his  first  impulse  after  his  fall, 
and  the  following  one — of  cursing  his  own  stupidity  and  his 
luck — had  also  gone  over  his  head  in  the  hour  or  two  since 
it  happened.  Now  he  was  reduced  to  a  state  of  calm 
wonder  as  to  how  and  why  he  had  done  it,  and  how  he  was 
going  to  get  out  of  it.  That  a  climber  of  his  pretensions 
should  have  slipped  on  a  rolling  stone,  saved  himself  by 
springing  to  another  coated  with  wet,  green  moss,  and  gone 
down  between  two  uneven  rocks,  was  bad  enough  in  itself, 
but  that  this  not  altogether  unheard-of  performance  should 
have  ended  in  giving  his  leg  an  ugly  wrench  that  made  it 
impossible  for  him  to  do  more  than  crawl  a  few  steps  to  the 
soft  moss — this  was  without  precedent.  Why  couldn't  he 
have  had  a  little  of  that  flimsy  waterfall's  imperviousness  ? 
It  was  a  fragile,  evasive,  foolish  sort  of  thing,  but  it  fell  its 
fifty  feet  and  ran  on  without  stopping,  while  he,  in  the  full 
possession  of  athletic  manhood,  slipped  a  few  paltry  steps 
and  found  himself  helpless !  How  long  would  he  have  to 
remain  there — that  was  an  interesting  question  too.  Not 
all  night,  of  course,  but,  as  it  was  yet  early  afternoon,  this 
was  not  in  itself  immediate  consolation.  By  nightfall  the 
people  at  the  Clocks'  would  begin  to  wonder  where  he  was, 


WHITE    BIRCHES  3 

for  he  left  word  that  he  would  be  home  to  supper ;  but 
it  would  be  some  time  before  they  concluded  that  any 
accident  had  happened  to  the  best  climber  in  the  valley, 
and  felt  authorized  to  go  after  him.  He  reflected  with 
grim  amusement  on  the  spectacle  of  his  own  towering  rage 
if  nothing  had  happened,  and  he,  simply  taking  his  own  time 
to  return,  had  been  met  upon  the  road  by  a  posse  provided 
with  lanterns  and  anxiety.  It  would  be  just  like  that  atro 
cious  little  Mrs.  Needham  to  suggest  it.  There  was  noth 
ing  she  liked  better  than  going  about  after  presentable  men, 
with  or  without  a  lantern,  and  she  had  already  shown  a  well- 
defined  inclination  to  watch  over  him,  just  now  the  only 
thoroughly  presentable  man  at  hand.  She  was  no  fool 
either,  that  same  little  Mrs.  Needham,  which  made  it  the 
more  difficult  to  avoid  her  and  at  the  same  time  increased 
his  anxiety  to  do  so — for  this  man  had  all  his  sex's  tolera 
tion  for  a  pretty  woman,  who  is  also  a  fool.  Well,  she  was 
safe  to  see  that  he  didn't  stay  out  all  night,  as  he'd  made 
some  idiotic  promise  to  sit  on  the  stile  with  her,  at  the  end 
of  the  garden,  and  see  the  moon  rise.  She  had  drawn  from 
him  the  object  of  his  walk  that  day  too,  so  she  might  follow 
if  she  could  find  anybody  to  drive  her  to  the  bars — he  re 
membered  hoping  they  would  all  be  busy  haying.  So  she 
might  make  her  appearance  before  lantern-time.  Austin 
Medcott  uttered  a  groan  of  deeper  impatience  than  physical 
suffering  had  drawn  from  him,  as  he  realized  that  he  was 
unconsciously  placing  his  most  vital  hopes  upon  Florence 
Needham. 

But  meanwhile — it  was  early  afternoon,  and  even  Florence 
Needham  wouldn't  come  for  two  or  three  hours,  and,  in  all 
human  probability,  no  one  else  would  come  at  all.  The 
hush  of  noon  still  lay  over  the  valley.  Through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  it  not  a  sound  was  stirring.  Away  over 
there,  too  far  for  any  shout  to  attract  attention,  lay  the  ugly 


4  WHITE    BIRCHES 

little  buildings  that  constituted  the  village ;  ugly,  but  not 
destitute  of  a  certain  picturesque  dignity,  since  in  them  peo 
ple  lived  and  worked  and  died,  and  these  great  facts  must 
leave  an  impress  that  is  never  all  commonplace.  On  all 
sides  rose  the  mountains,  strong,  still,  and  protecting,  but 
unassailable.  From  the  forests  that  covered  their  sides 
came  the  sound  of  distant  brooks,  audible  in  the  sunny 
quiet,  and  now  and  then  broke  in  the  flute-like  sweetness 
of  the  wood-thrush,  while  nearer  at  hand,  but  illusive  and 
uncompanionable,  was  the  restless  tinkle  of  a  cowbell ;  but 
no  sound  of  human  presence  came  from  mountain  or  forest. 
Austin  made  up  his  mind  to  the  inevitable,  and  looking  up 
into  the  blue  sky  just  visible  over  his  head  through  the  tall 
trees,  he  waited  quietly.  Nearer  and  nearer  drew  the  sound 
of  the  cowbell — mysteriously  near,  for  no  animal  came  in 
sight,  and  there  was  no  accompanying  rustle  of  four-footed 
existence  and  motion.  It  was  as  if  a  lonely  bell  were  mak 
ing  its  solitary  way  in  curiously  persistent  fashion  through 
the  woody  glades.  How  could  anybody  speak  of  a  peace 
ful  cowbell !  It  was  irritating  in  the  extreme,  and  yet  when, 
irrelevantly  and  purposelessly  it  died  away  and  he  heard 
only  the  faintest  tinkle  now  and  then,  he  felt  an  unreason 
able  increase  of  the  sense  of  desolation.  For  half  an  hour 
the  waterfall  plashed,  the  brook  purled,  the  shadows  grew 
and  the  aspens  fluttered,  and  then  a  sound  which  was 
neither  plash  nor  purl  nor  flutter  came  to  Medcott's  ears. 
Faint  at  first,  somewhat  broken  by  distance,  and  by  the 
singer's  evidently  uneven  steps  the  notes  of  a  song  drifted 
from  the  direction  of  the  rocks  above  the  waterfall.  Med- 
cott  raised  his  head  and  listened  intently,  resolved,  if  the 
voice  showed  signs  of  straying  off  to  either  side,  to  shout 
for  assistance.  But  instead,  without  any  of  the  evasive 
quality  of  the  cowbell,  it  came  straight  on,  and  he  now  dis 
tinguished  the  words  of  the  Eton  boat  song — 


WHITE    BIRCHES  5 

"  '  Twenty  years  hence,  such  weather,'  " 

sang  a  girl's  voice  quite  near  at  hand  and  then  ceased,  as 
its  owner  evidently  needed  all  her  available  breath  to  climb 
some  sharp  ascent.  Then  she  began  again, 

"'We  may  be  long  on  the  feather,'" 

and  to  Medcott's  eyes,  steadily  fixed  on  the  opening  in  the 
trees  through  which  she  must  come,  appeared  a  beautiful 
girl,  whose  flushed  cheeks  told  of  a  hard  pull  through  the 
ill-cleared  path,  and  whose  brown  hands,  and  clothes  of  or 
dinary  material  and  country  make,  hinted  that  she  was  not 
unused  to  such  effort.  She  paused,  looking  about  for  the 
easiest  way  down  the  slippery  and  jagged  rocks,  covered 
here  and  there  by  the  quick  sweep  of  the  stream  itself  and 
everywhere  moist  with  spray. 

The  afternoon  sun,  penetrating  the  foliage  here  and  there, 
threw  flickering  bits  of  light  over  her  face  and  figure.  By 
her  side  clustered  three  or  four  slender  white  birches,  like 
her  in  their  suggestions  of  freedom  and  girlishness,  and  she 
laid  her  hand  on  the  graceful  branch  of  one  of  them,  bend 
ing  it  towards  her,  as  she  waited.  Medcott  feared  to  startle 
her,  and  yet  it  seemed  better  to  speak  now  than  to  wait  un 
til  she  came  quite  near,  when  the  surprise  of  seeing  a  man 
lying  on  the  ground  might  be  more  of  a  shock,  especially  if 
it  should  happen  as  she  was  crossing  the  ungovernable 
brook  on  that  slippery  tree-trunk.  He  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow  and  then  hesitated.  What  should  he  say  ?  And 
he  ran  over  in  his  mind  the  different  salutations  proffered 
to  strange  young  maidens  according  to  the  best  authors. 
"Fair  Lady"  and  "Beautiful  Being"  both  seemed  a  little 
strained.  "  Look  here,  my  girl "  a  trifle  Early  English  in 
its  tone.  If  he  were  a  seafaring  man  he  could  say,  "  Heave 
ho,  my  hearty,"  or  something  like  that.  "  My  hearty,"  now 
— that  wasn't  a  bad  idea — rather  a  pretty,  old-fashioned 


6  WHITE   BIRCHES 

sort  of  name  for  that  sweet,  strong,  beautiful  girl.  The 
branch  of  the  white  birch  swung  back  from  the  detaining 
hand,  she  made  a  step  down. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Medcott. 

The  girl  stopped  and  looked  about  her. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Medcott  again,  leaning  forward  and 
pushing  aside  some  obscuring  shrubs. 

Then  she  looked  down  and  across,  and  their  eyes  met, 
while  the  swift  color  leaped  into  her  face. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  startled  you,"  he  went  on,  "  but  I 
had  to  speak  before  you  really  walked  over  jne,"  and  he 
smiled.  "  You  must  be  coming  across  to  the  path — I  only 
wish  I  could  get  out  of  your  way." 

All  this  time  she  had  not  uttered  a  sound,  neither  did  she 
seem  frightened,  she  simply  stood  still  and  looked  at  him. 
Medcott  began  to  wish  she  would  evince  emotion  of  some 
sort,  if  it  was  only  curiosity.  Except  for  that  first  flush, 
theirs  might  have  been  a  most  conventional  meeting. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  asked.  He  knew  already  that 
her  voice  was  sweet,  and  though  she  spoke  shyly,  she  was 
evidently  not  inclined  to  run  away  like  the  chronically 
startled  fawn. 

"  That  is  just  what  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  replied.  "  But 
I've  turned  my  ankle  or  sprained  my  knee  or  some  other 
idiotic  thing,  and  can't  walk  home,  and  I  shall  have  to  ask 
you  to  send  me  up  a  man  and  a  cart  from  the  village,  if  you 
are  going  that  way." 

She  came  rapidly  down,  her  feet,  clumsily  clad,  stepping 
lightly  from  rock  to  rock,  her  short  skirt  escaping  the  little 
wet  pools,  her  coarse  straw  hat  pushed  back  from  her  won 
derful  eyes  and  low,  broad  forehead.  Without  a  moment's 
pause  of  uncertainty,  she  crossed  on  the  green,  mossy  tree- 
trunk,  and  made  her  way  up  the  few  steps  from  the  brook 
that  Medcott  had  first  traversed  with  such  pain  and  difficulty. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  7 

"  I  will  send  my  brother  up,"  said  she,  standing  and  look 
ing  down  at  him.  "  But — "  and  she  hesitated. 

"  You  can't  think  how  I  am  abusing  my  own  stupidity, 
in  having  to  give  you  all  this  trouble." 

"It  isn't  your  fault,"  she  said  slowly,  "and  it  won't  be 
any  trouble  anyhow ;  but  I  was  thinking — it  will  be  some 
time  before  Jib  can  get  up  here.  Don't  you  think" — and 
then  she  paused  again ;  there  was  something  disconcerting 
in  the  very  respectful  gaze  of  the  deep  gray  eyes  and  the 
half-amused,  half-exasperated  smile  of  the  very  firm  mouth 
under  a  drooping  moustache.  Her  shyness  was  increasing, 
but  she  put  it  aside. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  you  could  walk,  leaning  on  my 
shoulder,  as  far  as  the  road  ?  Then,  perhaps,  some  of  the 
other  folks  will  be  going  by." 

"  I'd  like  to  think  anything  you  thought  I'd  better,"  said 
Medcott  with  deceptive  meekness,  "but  I  really  do  not 
think  I  could  do  that.  I  tried  it  by  myself,  and  it  was  too 
many  for  me,  and  as  for  your  helping  me,  I  cannot  consent 
to  incapacitate  you  for  further  action  also." 

"  I'm  very  strong,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  I  am  sure  of  that " — he  had  already  noted  her  look 
of  superb  health  and  strength — "and  I  am  very  grateful 
for  the  suggestion,  but  I  really  think  it  would  be  impossi 
ble.  I  shall  be  as  patient  as  a  rubber  doll  now  that  I  know 
help  is  coming — and  this  isn't  at  all  a  bad  place  to  wait 
in." 

"  No,"  she  assented,  "  it's  a  pretty  place."  Still,  she  hesi 
tated.  Her  shyness  had  given  place  to  a  feeling  of  pro 
nounced  friendliness.  She  did  not  like  to  leave  him  alone 
and  helpless.  All  the  pent-up  irritation  of  the  afternoon 
overflowed  Medcott's  masculine  soul.  It  was  too  exasperat 
ing  that  he  should  lie  prone  before  this  splendid  creature, 
this  beautiful  woman,  helpless  as  a  log,  dependent  upon  her 


8  WHITE   BIRCHES 

for  physical  assistance !  He  was  unused  to  the  pose  of 
weakling. 

"  What  a  fool  you  must  think  me  !"  he  broke  out.  "  Ly 
ing  here  like  a  babe  in  the  wood !  And  no  prospect  of 
getting  home  unless  you  send  for  me !  It's  outrageous  !  I 
won't  come  out  again  without  a  keeper." 

This  outbreak,  instead  of  dismaying  his  companion,  ren 
dered  her  more  completely  mistress  of  the  situation.  She 
had  seen  the  spectacle  of  helpless  and  impatient  manhood 
before.  Whether  the  victim  reclines  in  a  not  ungraceful  at 
titude  on  shaded  moss,  in  velveteen  jacket  and  knicker 
bockers  with  an  impatient  frown  disfiguring  his  handsome 
forehead,  and  eyes  whose  appealing  quality  has  an  unde 
niably  sulky  light  in  it,  or  sits  about  the  farm-kitchen  in 
overalls  and  a  flannel  shirt,  swearing  at  his  pipe  because  he 
doesn't  enjoy  it,  and  kicking  over  a  three-legged  stool  be 
cause  it  looks  so  cheerful  and  comfortable — they  are  each 
individuals  of  the  same  class,  and  not  an  unfamiliar  one. 

Around  the  girl's  waist  was  a  cord  with  a  tin  cup  at 
tached.  She  went  swiftly  down  to  the  brook,  and  filling  it 
with  the  cold,  clear  water,  brought  it  back  to  him. 

"  You  must  be  thirsty,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  gratefully,  "  I  am  very  thirsty." 

While  he  drank  she  added  quietly, 

"  Now  I'll  go  as  fast  as  I  can,  and  that's  not  very  slow," 
and  before  he  could  take  the  cup  from  his  lips  to  speak,  she 
was  speeding  away  from  him  over  the  rough  ground. 

"  Please  don't  run,"  he  shouted  after  her  imploringly. 

She  looked  around  and  nodded,  and  was  about  to  run  on 
again  in  defiance  of  his  entreaty,  when  a  sudden  thought 
seemed  to  strike  her,  and  she  slackened  her  pace  to  a  swift 
walk,  and  soon  passed  out  of  sight. 

"  Jove !  but  she's  fair  to  see,"  thought  Medcott,  "  and 
wasn't  it  nice  of  her  to  put  on  the  brake  because  she  knew 


WHITE    BIRCHES  9 

it  would  make  me  uncomfortable  to  have  her  run.  What 
eyes  and  what  a  figure  !  And  what  a  delicious  combination 
of  shyness  and  unconsciousness  !" 

He  felt  again  the  cool  touch  of  her  fingers  when  he  took 
the  cup  from  her  hands,  and  was  glad  that  not  a  look  had 
betrayed  his  inclination  to  take  them  in  his.  Silence  fell 
again,  save  for  the  sound  of  the  waterfall,  the  undertone  of 
brooks,  the  far-off  song  of  the  wood-thrush,  and  the  spas 
modic  tinkle  of  a  cowbell.  But  it  was  not  an  oppressive 
stillness,  and  the  cowbell  no  longer  irritated  him.  It  was 
a  silence  full  of  suggestions  of  beauty  and  movement,  and 
of  past  memories  and  future  possibilities. 


CHAPTER  II 

"For  every  passion  something,  and  for  no  passion  truly  anything." 
"  It  would  be  argument  for  a  week." 

"  SHA'N'T  I  read  to  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Needham,  laying 
down  her  cut  work  and  leaning  over  towards  Austin  with 
her  bright,  hard  little  smile  and  her  pretty  blue  eyes  raised 
to  his. 

Medcott  turned  away  with  a  slightly  bored  expression 
from  the  window,  whose  splendid  outlook  embraced  a  wide 
semicircle  of 'hills  rising  one  beyond  the  other,  in  varying 
shades  of  green  and  misty  blue,  and  holding  in  their  midst 
the  beautiful  sweep  of  meadow-land  with  the  clear,  narrow 
river  flowing  through  it.  If  only  she  would  let  him  alone 
for  a  while,  so  that  he  need  do  nothing  but  listen  to  the 
sound  of  the  river  and  watch  the  shadows  drift  over  Monu 
ment,  and  wonder  where  and  when  he  should  meet  Rhodope 
Trent  again.  But  she  had  let  him  alone  for  five  minutes  or 
so,  and  he  was  disgustingly  ungrateful  to  wish  to  ignore  her 
pitying  companionship  !  His  injured  leg  was  supported  in 
front  of  him  as  he  lay  at  ease  in  the  long  lounging-chair 
whose  lazy  comfort  should  have  checked  the  restless  sighs 
that  now  and  then  rose  from  its  depths. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  means  that  I've  been  brutally  cross,  and 
you  don't  know  what  else  to  do  with  me,"  he  answered. 

"  It  certainly  doesn't  mean  that  I  think  you  are  blissfully 
happy." 

"  I  ought  to  be,"  he  said,  looking  with  such  emotion  as 
he  was  capable  of  into  the  challenging  eyes  so  near  his. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  II 

Florence  Needham  was  a  remarkably  pretty  woman.  Her 
most  intimate  enemy  could  say  no  worse  of  her  personal 
appearance  than  that  she  was  getting  too  stout.  Her  face 
was  round  and  babyishly  pretty,  her  curly  hair  was  wound 
in  many  little  golden  braids  at  the  back  of  her  small,  well- 
shaped  head,  and  charming  rings  of  it  escaped  here  and 
there  after  the  manner  of  hair  of  this  description.  She  was 
always  exquisitely  dressed,  and  her  small  hands  glittered 
with  gems,  hard,  bright,  and  sparkling  as  her  own  personal 
ity.  After  Medcott's  last  speech,  she  looked  at  him  a  mo 
ment  in  silence,  and  then  she  laughed — a  high,  bell-like  lit 
tle  laugh. 

"  Why  ?"  she  asked ;  "  because  you've  sprained  your  knee 
and  the  doctors  say  you  are  not  to  stir  for  a  fortnight  ?  And 
because  you  are  precisely  the  kind  of  man  to  thoroughly  en 
joy  watching  beautiful  Nature  from  a  steamer-chair  when  it 
is  just  the  weather  for  climbing  and  fishing  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Medcott  lazily,  "  I  hadn't  thought  of  those 
advantages.  Because  I  am  at  present  the  recipient  of  Mrs. 
Needham's  exclusive  attention." 

"That  is  why  I  think  you  need  a  change.  Since  you 
have  been  suffering  my  exclusive  attention  you  have  sighed 
three  times,  stifled  two  yawns,  looked  longingly  out  of  the 
window  four  fifths  of  the  time,  and  generally  misconducted 
yourself.  Never  mind  explaining — what  shall  I  read  to  you  ?" 

"  Anything  you'll  be  good  enough  to  read  to  me,"  he  an 
swered  penitently.  "  '  The  volume  of  thy  choice ' — except 
perhaps  some  *  humbler  poet ' — I  don't  feel  like  a  humbler 
poet  this  afternoon." 

"  Mr.  Steven  says  *  To-morrow '  is  very  good,"  and  Mrs. 
Needham  took  up  a  volume  from  the  table  that  stood  near 
her. 

"  It  can't  be  worse  than  yesterday,"  said  Medcott  with 
lazy  petulance. 


12  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Or  to-day  for  that  matter  ?  Never  mind,  my  poor  boy, 
the  first  week  one  is  shut  up  is  always  the  worst."  Mrs. 
Needham  turned  the  leaves  of  "  To-morrow,"  but  she  did 
not  seriously  open  it. 

"  You  are  always  quoting  Mr.  Steven,"  said  Medcott  with 
the  fault-finding  spirit  of  invalidism.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  see 
why." 

She  looked  up  with  a  sharp,  questioning  glance  in  her 
round,  blue  eyes. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  he  is  so  literary — isn't  he  ?  I  sup 
posed  he'd  know." 

"  I  can't  see  that  he  knows  any  better  than  other  people," 
answered  Austin,  playing  impatiently  with  the  curtain  cord. 
"  You  recommended  that  '  Story  of  a  Window  Seat,'  on  the 
strength  of  his  opinion,  I  believe." 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  it  ought  to  be  an  infringement  of  the  law  of  na 
tions  to  reprint  such  stupidity !  I  couldn't  read  it." 

"  Neither  could  I,"  said  Mrs.  Needham,  seriously  and 
thoughtfully,  "  but  I  thought  it  was  good.  He  said  so.  I 
supposed  he  knew,"  she  added  again,  and  looked  absently 
at  the  first  page  of  "  To-morrow."  "  Perhaps  this  isn't 
good  either,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

Medcott  watched  her  with  a  slight  smile  that  she  did 
not  see  and  would  not  have  understood  if  she  had.  What 
an  artificial  creature  she  was  anyway !  And  then  he  turned 
wearily  to  the  open  window  again. 

"  You  are  not  a  bit  interested  in  me,"  said  Mrs.  Need- 
ham,  shutting  up  "  To-morrow  "  and  putting  it  back  on  the 
table. 

"Oh,  but  I  am,"  asserted  Austin,  "but  I  am  not  inter 
esting — that  is  the  matter  with  me." 

"  I  wish  you  weren't,"  pouted  Mrs.  Needham.  "  Then  I 
shouldn't  care." 


WHITE   BIRCHES  13 

"  I  only  need  the  assurance  that  you  care,  to  be  anything 
you  like,"  said  Medcott,  resigning  for  the  second  time  the 
outside  for  the  inside  view,  and  making  an  effort  to  speak 
less  perfunctorily. 

He  had  had  a  good  deal  of  this  sort  of  thing  for  the  last 
three  days.  Mrs.  Needham  had  frankly  expressed  her  sat 
isfaction  with  the  fate  that  had  thrown  the  most  interesting 
man  about,  upon  the  tender  mercies  of  indoor  companions. 
"  It  is  more  than  I  had  a  right  to  expect,"  she  told  him, 
"  that  you  should  be  laid  at  my  very  door.  I  hate  walking 
and  I  hate  driving  and  I  hate  everything  that  one  generally 
has  to  do  in  the  country  as  means  to  an  end.  And  here  is  the 
end  right  at  my  hand  without  bothering  with  the  means  at 
all.  There's  nothing  left  for  us  to  do  except  to  be  mutually 
entertaining."  Entertainment  and  flirtation  were  practical 
ly  synonymous  terms  in  Mrs.  Needham's  vocabulary,  and 
Medcott  had  tamely  acquiesced,  in  a  measure,  but  to  Flor 
ence  Needham's  practised  eye  it  was  acquiescence,  not 
interest,  and  she  speculated  somewhat  concerning  the  rea 
son. 

There  were  no  depths  in  her  eyes  as  they  met  his,  but 
they  were  of  a  very  pretty  color  and  were  capable  of  a  touch 
almost  of  softness  now  and  then.  As  Medcott  looked  into 
them,  by  very  force  of  contrast  another  pair  came  into  his 
mental  vision — eyes,  penetrating,  deep  and  grave,  which, 
though  meeting  his  fearlessly,  were  quickly  veiled  in  a 
pretty  sort  of  shyness  if  he  looked  too  long.  His  expres 
sion,  although  painstaking,  grew  indifferent  notwithstand 
ing,  and  Mrs.  Needham's  hard  little  laugh  broke  out  again. 

"  Oh,  Austin  Medcott !"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  badly  you 
do  it.  You  are  almost  as  unsuccessful  as — as  Charlie 
Needham  himself." 

Conscious  of  his  failure,  and  yet  willing  to  repay  her 
for  her  real  kindness  during  his  helplessness  in  the  only 


14  WHITE    BIRCHES 

coin  which  was  acceptable,  Medcott  breathed  a  sigh,  half 
real,  half  simulated, 

"  There  it  is — a  woman's  way !  Make  victims  of  us  and 
then  laugh  at  us  !  Poor  Charlie — and  most  unhappy  I !" 

Even  as  he  spoke  a  swift  change  passed  over  his  face. 
The  bored  look  left  it,  and  his  sunbrowned  cheek  flushed  a 
little  deeper.  Florence  Needham  saw  the  change,  and  as 
she  was  about  to  speak  checked  herself,  and,  leaning  for 
ward,  looked  out  of  the  window  in  the  direction  of  his  gaze. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  under  her  breath.  A  little  path  wound 
from  the  nearer  hills  through  the  meadow  to  the  road.  It 
strayed  now  this  way,  now  that,  crossing  a  tiny  brook  by 
an  uneven,  tilting  board,  and  avoiding  the  overflow  of  a 
hidden  spring  by  a  sudden  curve.  On  either  side  the  flat 
greenness  stretched  away  till  it  met  the  duskier  green  of 
beech  and  pine.  Along  this  path  came  Rhodope  Trent. 
Twenty  times  had  he  thought  of  her  as  he  saw  her  first  in 
the  wood ;  and  now  as  she  moved,  tall  and  straight,  through 
the  meadow,  a  big  bunch  of  sweet-peas  in  her  hand,  her 
beauty  was  no  less  remarkable  than  it  had  been  then.  She 
was  a  figure  fit  to  give  the  human  element  to  this  scene  of 
lofty  peace  and  sunny  freedom.  Suddenly  his  three  days 
of  mingled  sentiment  and  cynicism  with  Florence  Needham 
seemed  singularly  pale  and  empty.  Such  intercourse  bore 
the  stamp  of  the  city's  lightness  and  unnaturalness.  It 
lacked  the  truth  of  cool  woods  and  high  hills  and  murmur 
ing  waters. 

But  Medcott  was  accustomed  to  feminine  scrutiny,  and 
it  was  with  the  most  discreet  interest  and  his  usual  expres 
sion  of  nonchalance  that  he  said  to  his  companion, 

"  There  is  the  young  woman  who  found  me  in  the  woods 
the  other  day,  and  sent  her  brother  to  bring  me  home.  I 
should  like  to  thank  her  if  she  comes  near  enough  to  let 
me." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  15 

Florence's  lips  curved  into  a  smile. 

"  I  fancy  she  will,"  she  observed.  "  In  fact,  it  would  not 
surprise  me  if  those  sweet-peas  had  been  gathered  in  view 
of  some  such  contingency." 

Medcott  was  annoyed,  and  almost  unwise  enough  to 
make  this  plain. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it  would  occur  to  her  to  think  of  strew 
ing  the  recumbent  hero  with  flowers,"  he  said  with  a  frown. 
"  Such  attentions  are  reserved  rather  for  the  criminals  in 
the  large  cities." 

"  Really  a  village  belle  !"  murmured  Mrs.  Needham,  lean 
ing  farther  forward,  so  that  her  blonde  head  was  very  near 
Medcott's  dark  one.  "  Beauty,  badly  fitting  clothes,  and  a 
bunch  of  posies." 

Nearer,  in  her  rough  straw  hat,  her  clumsily  made  gown, 
and  her  fine  unconsciousness,  came  Rhodope. 

"  She  is  not  at  all  my  idea  of  a  village  belle,"  answered 
Medcott  quietly.  "  She  is  too  statuesque."  He  knew  it 
was  most  ill-considered  on  his  part  to  use  the  one  word 
that  could  never  be  applied  to  Florence  Needham's  beauty, 
but  he  had  been  goaded  into  it. 

He  longed  to  go  out  and,  meeting  the  girl,  take  her 
around  another  way  out  of  reach  of  these  comments,  or,  at 
least,  give  her  the  protection  of  his  presence. 

"  Oh,  it  is  to  your  artistic  soul  that  she  appeals,  of 
course,"  went  on  Mrs.  Needham,  with  a  furtive  touch  of 
sharpness  in  her  incisive  little  voice.  "  You  artists  always 
rave  over  those  large  women.  You  didn't  tell  me  you  were 
rescued  by  a  rustic  beauty." 

"  No,  I  didn't  mention  it,"  said  Austin  dryly.  "  I  knew 
if  you  ever  saw  her  you  would  not  need  to  be  told." 

Certainly  he  was  acquitting  himself  most  unwisely. 

Just  then  at  one  of  the  many  turns  of  the  wayward  path 
the  girl  under  discussion  raised  her  eyes,  and  looking  straight 


l6  WHITE   BIRCHES 

before  her  saw  the  picture  framed  in  the  window  of  the 
large  farm-house  whose  wide-open  doors  and  piazza,  full  of 
easy-chairs  suggested  such  summer  ease  and  hospitality. 
She  made  an  instant's  pause,  and  the  deep  flush,  that  Aus 
tin  recognized  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  dyed  her  face  and 
even  her  throat.  Then,  averting  her  glance,  she  came 
straight  on  her  way  towards  them,  the  intentness  of  Med- 
cott's  attitude  and  gaze,  and  the  pretty,  curious  face  so 
near  him,  photographed  distinctly  on  her  memory.  When 
she  looked  at  them  again  she  was  just  before  the  house, 
and  Austin  was  leaning  over  the  sill,  and  on  the  doorstep 
stood  Mrs.  Needham  in  her  exquisitely  fitting  gray  gown 
and  her  bright  little  smile. 

"  Won't  you  please  come  in,"  she  said,  "  and  let  us  thank 
you  ?  Mr.  Medcott  tells  me  if  it  were  not  for  you  he  would 
be  up  at  the  Cascade  yet." 

The  "  us  "  in  the  sentence  produced  all  the  effect  she 
hoped  from  it.  It  filled  Medcott's  soul  with  impotent  wrath, 
and  touched  the  spirit  of  the  girl  whom  she  addressed  with 
vague  and  unrecognized  discomfort. 

"  Do  be  so  good  as  to  grant  me  this  other  favor,"  said 
Medcott's  musical  voice.  The  girl  looked  at  him  with  her 
shy  smile,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  slowly  crossed  the 
road  and  came  in  at  the  gate.  Mrs.  Needham  watched  her 
coming  with  a  curious,  cold  look  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"  I  want  you  to  thank  your  brother  for  me,"  added  Med 
cott. 

"  Will  you  tell  us  who  you  are  ?"  asked  Florence  with  an 
air  of  good-natured  freedom. 

"Miss  Trent  need  not  do  that,"  interposed  Austin  quiet 
ly,  "her  brother  gave  me  his  name — perhaps  he  told  you 
that  mine  is  Austin  Medcott." 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  17 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Needham,  airily,  after  one  of  her  quick, 
surprised  glances  at  Medcott.  "Mr.  Medcott  did  not  call 
you  by  name  in  the  description  he  favored  me  with ;  Miss 
Trent— is  that  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  again,  with  her  grave,  direct  look 
which  made  Mrs.  Needham  seem  unreasonably  frivolous 
and  ephemeral,  "  Rhodope  Trent." 

"And  I  am  Mrs.  Needham,"  went  on  Florence.  "Do 
come  in  and  stay,  won't  you  ?  Mr.  Medcott  and  I  are  bored 
to  death,  and  we  long  for  something  diverting — something 
interesting,  he  would  say,"  and  she  glanced  at  him  laugh 
ingly  around  the  doorpost.  "  I  am  usually  considered  inter 
esting — very — by  men  of  taste,  but  I've  sung  my  best  songs 
and  danced  my  best  dances  and  told  my  funniest  tales  this 
afternoon,  and  Mr.  Medcott  is  still  bored,  and  naturally  I 
am  by  such  an  unappreciative  audience.  So  as  the  rest  of 
the  boarders  have  all  gone  on  a  picnic  and  " — she  sank  her 
voice  to  a  transient  whisper — "  and  the  Clocks  are  all  slow 
— excuse  me,  but  we  make  that  joke  regularly  once  a  day 
— there  is  nothing  left  unless  you  come  in  and  amuse  us." 

She  delivered  her  analysis  of  the  situation  with  her  usual 
accompaniment  of  bright,  unmeaning  laughter,  watching  all 
the  while  the  beautiful  face  of  the  girl  before  her,  whose 
expression  of  mingled  questioning  and  dismay  made  Austin 
long  to  shake  the  speaker. 

"I  cannot  come  in  to-day,1'  Rhodope  answered  at  last, 
with  the  dignity  of  sincerity  in  which  Florence  Needham 
was  so  notably  deficient. 

"  Come  another  time,  then,"  she  said  in  honeyed  tones. 
"We  shall  always  be  glad  to  see  you.  What  beautiful 
sweet-peas  !"  she  added,  before  Medcott,  who  felt  angrily 
helpless,  as  a  man  always  must  between  two  women,  one  of 
whom  is  bent  on  putting  the  other  at  a  disadvantage,  could 
speak.  "  I  am  sure  you  must  be  taking  them  to  some  one 

2 


l8  WHITE    BIRCHES 

— those  colors  would  cheer  the  most  disconsolate  inva 
lid." 

"  I  am  not  taking  them  anywhere,"  said  Rhodope  frank 
ly,  holding  them  out,  "  I  picked  them  because  they  were  so 
pretty.  Won't  you  have  them  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Needham,  herself,  could  not  have  put  in  a  neater 
thrust,"  thought  Medcott,  with  satisfaction,  as  he  noticed 
the  swift  change  of  expression  that  showed  that  this  devel 
opment  was  unexpected. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !"  said  Florence  effusively.  "  I  will 
gladly  take  some  if  you  do  not  want  them,  but  I  really 
think  you  ought  to  give  half  to  Mr.  Medcott — he  is  the  one 
that  needs  all  the  petting  and  spoiling  just  now,  you  know. 
I  persist  in  considering  him  your  patient  too — I  am  sure  he 
is  inclined  to  so  consider  himself."  She  had  taken  a  part 
of  the  bouquet  from  Rhodope's  hands  as  she  spoke,  and  now 
watched  her  as  she  stood  irresolute,  with  the  same  curious 
interest. 

"  She  is  resolved  to  make  us  both  uncomfortable  if  she 
can,"  thought  Medcott  angrily,  as  he,  too,  looked  at  Rhod 
ope,  whose  eyes  were  on  her  flowers  while  she  hesitated. 
"  If  you  will  give  me  a  few,"  he  said  aloud,  "  you  will  add 
to  the  list  of  your  benefactions  to  an  unworthy,  but  not  an 
ungrateful  object.  Do  give  them  to  me,  Miss  Rhodope," 
he  added  pleadingly.  He  felt  impelled  to  use  her  odd, 
inappropriate  name. 

Still  looking  down,  she  drew  nearer  the  window,  and  as 
she  reached  it,  lifted  her  eyes  together  with  the  flowers 
towards  him. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,"  she  said.  There  was  that  in 
the  sweet,  glowing  beauty  of  the  blossoms  like  that  of  her 
face.  Suggestions  of  the  sunlight  of  the  wide,  green  mead 
ow  and  of  the  depths  of  the  cool  mountain  shadows  were 
concentrated  for  him  in  her  eyes  and  smile.  In  the  fra- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  19 

grance  of  the  sweet-peas,  he  forgot  to  be  on  his  guard,  for 
got  Florence  Needham  in  the  doorway,  and  looked  into  her 
face  with  a  feeling  he  did  not  hide. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  absently. 

"  We  will  see  whose  last  the  longest,"  laughed  Mrs.  Need- 
ham  from  the  doorway,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 

"  Please  tell  your  brother,"  said  Medcott,  earnestly  but 
conventionally,  "not  to  think  that  I  did  not  appreciate  his 
care  and  strength  the  other  afternoon.  I  want  to  see  him 
again  to  tell  him  myself." 

"  Jib  didn't  think  he  did  anything,"  she  said,  going  back 
to  the  path.  "  I  guess  you  didn't  make  any  trouble.  I'm 
glad  it's  no  worse,"  she  added.  "Good -by,"  and  with 
a  farewell  smile  to  Mrs.  Needham  she  passed  out  of  the 
gate  and  down  the  unshaded  road  with  the  free,  easy  mo 
tion  that  spoke  of  the  absence  of  fatigue  and  indolence. 
Mrs.  Needham  turned  slowly  into  the  house  and  came  back 
to  Austin's  chair. 

"  What  a  pretty  little  idyl !"  she  said  in  her  light,  mock 
ing  tones.  "  It  is  so  evident,  poor  child,  that  she  has  never 
seen  quite  such  an  interesting  invalid  before.  She  fancies 
you  as  gentle  and  helpless  as  you  seem — just  the  person 
to  be  reached  by  the  fragrance  and  innocence  of— sweet- 
peas  !"  and  she  laughed  again. 

Medcott  said  nothing ;  he  felt  that  he  might  hit  upon 
something  rude  by  way  of  reply. 

"  It  is  only  hardened  souls  like  mine  that  learn,"  she 
went  on  with  a  sigh,  "  that  you  attractive  men  are  just  as 
exacting  and  as  heartless  when  you  are  drawing  upon  all 
our  womanly  sympathies." 

He  looked  up  and  recognized  the  sentimental  gleam 
from  under  her  drooped  eyelids. 

"And  yet  you  give  them  to  us  all  the  same,"  he  said 
with  an  effort,  his  fingers  playing  caressingly  with  the  flow 
ers  on  the  window-ledge. 


20  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  slowly,  her  glance  wandering  to 
them  for  a  moment.  "  Oh,  yes,  we  give  them  to  you." 

Medcott  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  He  blamed  himself 
for  his  irresponsiveness.  Why  not  amuse  this  pretty  woman 
as  she  wished  to  be  amused  ?  But  he  was  out  of  conceit 
with  her  and  her  prettiness,  and  he  did  not  speak.  She  did 
not  give  him  long  to  make  up  his  mind.  The  sentimental 
gleam  gave  place  to  a  harder  one. 

"  Now,"  she  asked,  "  will  you  put  them  in  your  autograph 
album  and  press  them  and  date  them  *  Given  me  August 
tenth  by  the  fair  hands  of  Rhodope '  ?  or  will  you  let  them 
lie  and  spend  their  brief  existence  by  your  side,  while  you 
forget  them  ?" — she  was  pinning  her  own  to  her  dress  as  she 
spoke—"  or—" 

"  I  will  put  them  in  water  and  keep  them  as  long  as  I 
can  to  remind  me  of  her,"  he  answered  defiantly.  "  That  is," 
he  said,  with  the  smile  which  she  had  sought  to  bring  to  his 
lips  before,  "  if  you  will  add  to  all  your  many  acts  of  grace 
and  give  me  that  dainty  vase  in  blue,  cracked  glass,  deco 
rated  with  red  and  blue  pictures,  from  the  shelf." 

"  So  I  must  minister  to  what  I  foresee  is  going  to  be 
good  for  neither  of  you,"  she  said  as  she  turned  away.  "At 
least  it  is  well  Rhodope  won't  see  them.  She  would  be  so 
flattered  because  they  were  put  in  what  she  is  sure  to  con 
sider  an  artistic  object.  She  is  probably  educated  up  to 
scrap  pictures,"  with  which  Parthian  suggestion  she  went 
into  the  next  room  for  water. 

Medcott's  irritation  most  ungratefully  grew  with  her  ab 
sence.  That  meeting  in  the  woods  and  the  subsequent 
fancies  were  no  longer  between  him  and  her  alone ;  this 
sharp,  hard  little  woman  had  made  her  way  into  the  charmed 
circle  of  their  acquaintance.  He  had  thought  of  how,  as 
soon  as  he  could  walk,  he  would  find  her  out  and  thank 
her  and  see  again  her  beauty  and  her  fleeting  shyness 


WHITE    BIRCHES  21 

and  her  simple,  direct  glance.  He  had  dreamed  a  dozen 
things  about  this  meeting,  and  now — and  he  bit  his  lip 
with  vexation  as  he  recalled  how  she  must  have  seen 
him  through  the  window,  alone  with  Florence  Needham, 
ler  fluffy,  blonde  head  so  near,  and  her  ringed  fingers 
jesting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  And  how  should  her 
innocence  know  that  it  was  but  the  perfectly  aimless 
coquetry  of  an  unmitigated  flirt  who  cared  no  more  for 
Austin  Medcott's  attention  than  for  that  of  any  man  who 
should  turn  up  in  this  quiet  place !  An  enterprising  bee 
had  already  discovered  the  sweet-peas.  His  buzz  in  the 
quiet  room  was  unusually  intrusive.  Why  could  not  bees 
and  Mrs.  Needham  leave  his  flowers  alone ! 

Florence  returned  with  the  vase  of  water.  It  increased 
his  irritation  to  see  the  blossoms  at  her  round  little  waist. 
In  a  moment  she  would  begin  her  odious  chaff  about 
"Rhodope."  He  wished  she  had  not  discovered  her  name. 
But  instead  she  was  quite  silent  as  she  took  the  sweet-peas 
from  his  hands  and  arranged  them  with  quick,  skilful  fingers 
in  the  cheap  little  vase.  Only  once  she  uttered  an  exclama 
tion  when  the  bee  which  Medcott  thought  had  gone  flew 
out  from  the  purple  petals.  He  was  seized  with  remorse. 

"  It  did  not  sting  me,"  she  said  composedly  enough, "  but 
it  was  a  narrow  escape." 

It  was  with  a  remark  on  an  utterly  different  subject  that 
she  placed  them  near  him  and  took  up  her  work  again. 


CHAPTER  III 

"She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre." 

' '  ORLANDO.  Your  accent  is  something  finer  than  you  could  purchase 
in  so  removed  a  dwelling. 

"  ROSALIND.  I  have  been  told  so  of  many  ;  but  indeed  an  old  relig 
ious  uncle  of  mine  taught  me  to  speak." 

"  RHODE  !"  called  old  Denver  Trent  from  where  he  sat 
in  the  living-room  of  his  small  but  comfortably  furnished 
house.  It  was  raining,  and  the  fire  on  the  wide  hearth 
conquered  the  slight  chill  of  the  dampness  that  came  in 
through  the  open  door.  The  sturdy  old  man  did  not  seek 
its  warmth,  however.  Rheumatism  had  marked  him  for  her 
own  and  imparted  a  decided  limp  to  his  left  leg,  but  damp 
ness  was  none  the  less  a  thing  to  be  ignored,  and  a  fire  in 
August  a  pitiful  concession  to  weak  womanhood.  The  per 
sonification  of  weak  womanhood  to  whom  this  concession 
had  been  ungrudgingly,  if  somewhat  scornfully,  made,  was 
at  present  outside  in  the  cool  dampness,  her  buoyant  health 
untroubled  by  hints  of  deleterious  influences,  while  she  re 
joiced  in  the  thought  that  Uncle  Denver  was  at  least  in  the 
room  with  a  fire.  Such  are  the  mutual  forbearances  from 
heights  of  conscious  superiority. 

"  Rhode  !"  called  Denver  Trent  a  second  time.  Jib 
looked  up  from  the  book  which  he  was  devouring  in  an 
attitude  suggestive  of  indigestion  rather  than  assimilation, 
his  head  being  some  inches  lower  than  his  heels,  which 


WHITE    BIRCHES  23 

were  waving  with  temporary  irresolution  to  and  fro  as  he 
lay,  face  downward,  on  a  cushioned  bench  upon  which  he 
was  too  long  to  find  ample  accommodation. 

"  She's  round  on  the  side  piazza,"  he  remarked  cursorily, 
and  returned  to  "  The  Haunts  of  the  Prairie  Dog,"  a  work 
teeming  with  illustration  and  adventure. 

"  Of  all  the  uses  to  put  a  side  stoop  to,"  commented  Mr. 
Trent,  "about  the  foolishest  is  usin'  it  to  set  on.  It's  a 
good  enough  place  to  stand  barrels,  or  shell  pease,  or  hang 
dish-towels  to  dry,  but  as  for  settin'  on  it— that's  a  trick 
she's  learned  of  the  summer  boarders — blessed  if  they  don't 
come  up  here  more'n  a  hundred  miles  from  home  to  see 
how  it  feels  to  set  on  a  stoop !  Wonder  they  don't  buy 
themselves  one  where  they  come  from." 

Rhodope  had  entered  in  time  to  hear  the  conclusion  of 
her  uncle's  speech,  and  she  now  stood  before  him,  looking 
down  and  smiling. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  were  not  wont  to  sit  on  the  side 
stoop  and  watch  the  hills  long  before  any  summer  boarders 
found  out  there  was  such  a  place  as  this,"  she  said.  In 
this  sentence  there  was  a  touch  of  a  certain  quality  that 
distinguished  Rhodope's  speech  from  that  of  the  ordinary 
countrywoman.  Many  people  noticed  it,  but  few  recog 
nized  the  reason  of  it.  Brought  up  as  she  had  been,  and 
always  having  lived  in  this  quiet,  ignorant  valley,  she  had 
none  the  less  absorbed  a  somewhat  unusual  education. 
She,  like  her  brother,  was  fond  of  reading,  but,  unlike  her 
brother,  her  taste  was  for  the  best  procurable  class  of  lit 
erature. 

Denver  Trent,  a  remarkable  man  in  more  ways  than  one, 
had  been  for  these  parts  a  most  extensive  buyer  of  books, 
and  odd  volumes  had  a  way  of  drifting  to  his  table  and 
book-shelves.  Sometimes  they  were  sent  or  left  by  sum 
mer  travellers  who  knew  his  tastes  ;  sometimes  bought 


24  WHITE    BIRCHES 

from  the  train  newsboy,  who  had  relatives  —  apparently  a 
most  incongruous  thing  for  a  train  newsboy — near  by,  and 
who  occasionally  stopped  overnight,  varying  for  a  few 
hours  his  dizzying  round  of  dropping  novels  and  railway 
guides  into  people's  laps  for  future  recovery,  and  his  pre 
sumably  exclusive  fare  of  apples,  bananas,  and  fresh  cara 
mels.  It  was  a  motley  collection,  this  library  of  Denver 
Trent's,  of  cheap  editions,  sensational  novels,  memoirs  and 
classics,  but  they  meant  literature,  and  some  of  it  the  best 
literature,  and  out  of  it  certain  phrases  found  their  way  into 
Rhodope's  speech.  Hence  with%  the  utmost  simplicity  of 
manner  and  language  were  blended  suggestions  of  bookish 
expression  which  had  an  odd,  half -stilted,  half -amusing 
effect  on  the  ear  of  the  listener.  She  dimly  felt  a  shade 
of  difference  between  her  own  mode  of  expression  and 
those  of  the  villagers,  but  of  what  it  consisted  she  was 
absolutely  unconscious.  Her  books  were  as  real  to  her  as 
living  companions,  and  she  did  not  dwell  upon  their  dis 
similarity.  Upon  Jib  this  love  of  reading  had,  as  has  been 
hinted,  a  totally  opposite  influence.  Whether  or  not  it  was 
because  he  habitually  read  with  his  head  down  and  his  heels 
up,  he  seemed  to  assimilate  nothing.  His  favorite  literature 
was  that  of  fire  and  flood,  sword  and  pillage,  but  his  man 
ners  and  disposition  were  of  an  extreme  mildness.  He  held, 
with  the  partially  domesticated  newsboy,  long  discussions 
anent  the  comparative  value  of  the  fiction  of  certain  de- 
picters  of  life  in  the  Far  West,  and  the  tamer  but  more  cos 
mopolitan  merits  of  the  works  of  Mr.  Archibald  Clavering 
Gunter.  To  Jib  this  newsboy  represented  that  rung  of  the 
literary  ladder  achieved,  to  those  of  wider  horizon,  by  the 
critics  of  the  large  metropolitan  journals.  He  picked  up 
all  sorts  of  news  of  contemporary  literature  in  the  tasks 
he  daily  perpetrated,  and  which  seem  so  like  that  of  the 
daughters  of  Danaus  —  always  emptying  a  rack  of  books 


WHITE    BIRCHES  25 

and  a  box  of  assorted  candies,  only  to  fill  them  up  again 
immediately  with  the  same  ones.  When  a  treasure,  pro 
nounced  by  this  authority  to  be  most  blood-curdling,  fell 
into  Jib's  hands,  he  would  rise  from  its  perusal  to  the 
performance  of  any  domestic  duty  with  calm  and  un- 
heated  imagination,  and  chop  wood  at  his  sister's  request 
with  as  sweet  an  expression  and  as  lazy  a  smile  as  were 
presumably  those  of  his  favorite  heroes  as  they  wielded 
the  marline -spike  or  the  battle-axe.  Uncle  Denver  was 
vastly  amused  by  the  literary  proclivities  of  his  nephew, 
and  listened  not  unsympathetically  to  certain  thrilling  ex 
periences  detailed  at  second-hand.  When  well-meaning 
people,  as  occasionally  happened,  remonstrated  with  him 
about  some  of  the  undoubted  trash  that  found  its  way  into 
his  family,  he  would  smile  and  observe  that  the  valley  was 
pretty  quiet — wasn't  much  doin'  there  in  the  way  of  scalp- 
in'  and  ridin'  tournaments,  and  cuttin'  off  people's  heads 
with  swords,  and  he  guessed  he'd  just  as  lief  Jib  'd  take  it 
out  in  reading  about  their  happenin'  in  foreign  parts  as  be 
lookin'  up  jobs  about  home.  He  might  happen  to  fall  on 
to  somethin'  worse — he  knew  them  as  had. 

To  which  there  was  little  for  even  well-meaning  persons, 
who  have  a  proverbial  fund  of  disagreeable  anecdote  and 
illustration,  to  reply,  for  the  state  of  morality  in  this  small, 
out-of-the-way  place  was  not  very  encouraging,  as  is  so  often 
the  case  in  these  spots  favored  by  Nature  above  others,  but 
not  a  word  was  ever  breathed  against  the  good-natured, 
stalwart  character  of  Jib  Trent.  When  Uncle  Denver  add 
ed  that,  for  his  part,  he'd  as  lief  have  second-hand  murders 
around  the  house  as  first-hand  whiskey,  the  subject  was 
usually  dropped,  only  to  be  supplemented,  if  the  well-mean- 
ingness  of  the  person  had  not  destroyed  his  judgment,  by 
the  arrival  of  "  Treasure  Island,"  or  some  equally  exciting 
and  unobjectionable  book  of  adventure. 


26  WHITE   BIRCHES 

Rhodope  stood  smiling  at  her  uncle,  and  he  looked  up 
with  a  half-shamefaced  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  *'  I  don't  say  anythin'  against  looking  at 
the  hills.  I  reckon  that's  what  they're  put  there  for  mostly 
— but  that  ain't  what  the  summer  boarders  set  on  the  piazza 
for.  They  seem  most  as  scared  of  gettin'  too  well  acquaint 
ed  with  them  as  if  they  was  likely  to  turn  up  and  worry  'em 
in  the  city  after  they  get  home.  Where's  the  glue-pot, 
Rhode  ?" 

A  long  love  of  Nature,  and  an  extended,  though  intermit 
tent,  acquaintance  with  the  summer  visitor,  had  taught  Den 
ver  Trent  a  number  of  things  about  both. 

Rhodope  went  after  the  glue-pot  and  brought  it  to  the  old 
man,  and  then,  resting  her  hand  on  his  broad  shoulder,  stood 
watching  him  a  moment  as  his  big  fingers  manipulated  the 
broken  chair  he  was  at  work  on.  But  her  gaze  wandered  ; 
she  glanced  out  of  the  window,  went  over  and  put  a  stick  of 
wood  on  the  fire,  and  then  spoke. 

"  What  you  reading,  Jib  ?"  she  asked. 

"  '  Haunts  of  the  Prairie  Dog,'  "  he  answered. 

"Good?" 

"  Fair  to  middling." 

"  Ain't  all  dead  yet,  I  guess,"  put  in  Uncle  Denver.  "Jib 
thinks  it  ain't,  so  to  say,  a  first-rate  book  while  any  on  'em's 
left  alive." 

Rhodope  smiled  and  walked  to  the  doorway,  through 
which  one  looked  across  the  branches  of  a  whispering 
poplar  straight  into  the  green  hillside  opposite,  which 
might  extend  up,  up,  up  interminably,  for  all  one  could 
see.  There  she  stood  a  moment,  glanced  back  into 
the  room  to  see  if  her  uncle  wanted  anything  else,  then 
stepped  out  and  went  around  again  to  her  big  chair  on  the 
side  piazza.  But  she  did  not  sit  down  in  it  immediately. 
She  paced  up  and  down  once  or  twice,  leaned  against  the 


WHITE  BIRCHES  27 

rough,  unpainted  support  of  the  roof,  looking  off  to  the  dis 
tant  peaks,  and  then  came  back  and  threw  herself  into  the 
weather-beaten  chair.  This  restlessness  and  this  idleness 
were  alike  unusual  with  her.  She  had  less  household  tasks 
than  most  of  the  village  girls,  for  her  uncle  was  well-to-do, 
and  they  had  helpers  in  kitchen  and  field,  but  she  always 
found  something  to  be  done,  especially  on  rainy  days.  This 
morning,  however,  she  could  settle  upon  nothing  in  the  way 
of  employment.  She  did  not  even  want  to  take  up  a  book. 
She  was  never  as  easily  absorbed  in  a  book  as  Jib  was,  and 
to-day  she  did  not  feel  in  the  least  inclined  to  one.  She 
wanted  to  be  out-of-doors  ;  she  sighed  for  freedom  and 
action  ;  but  it  was  too  wet  to  walk  far,  and  she  had  nothing 
to  go  for,  no  errand  to  do  until  mail-time  anyway,  then  she 
would  go  after  the  paper.  Gray  mists  floated  down  the  blue 
sides  of  Mystery.  Now  its  summit  was  veiled  entirely  by 
the  thick,  low-lying  clouds,  and  then  it  pierced  through 
them,  and  the  scraps  of  mist,  torn  from  the  enveloping 
folds,  slipped  down  into  the  valley,  caught  here  and  there 
and  rent  with  further  fragments  which  melted  quickly  into 
invisible  showers.  Nearer  at  hand  the  straight,  fine  rain 
fell  softly  and  persistently  on  the  grass.  The  house  was 
not  on  the  village  street,  and  there  were  no  unsightly  pud 
dles  and  no  deep,  muddy  ruts  to  illustrate  the  annoyances  of 
a  rainy  day,  and  no  brick  walls  and  sloppy  pavements  and 
wet  umbrellas  to  make  it  seem  aggressive.  All  about  the 
mountains  looked  on  calmly  and  not  unsmilingly  at  the 
pretty  downpour.  Rhodope  watched  it  without  further  occu 
pation,  and  wondered  if  the  summer  boarders  Uncle  Denver 
had  spoken  of  were  doing  the  like.  She  did  not  believe 
they  were  so  indifferent  to  her  dear  and  beautiful  hills  as 
he  had  implied.  She  thought  they  spent  a  great  deal  of  time 
investigating  their  beauties.  What  had  he  gone  up  into  the 
woods  for,  if  it  were  not  to  see  the  cascade — for  no  possible 


28  WHITE  BIRCHES 

purpose  except  that  it  was  beautiful  ?  Rhodope  was  igno 
rant  of  the  significance  of  the  sudden  change  of  personal 
pronoun.  He  was  an  artist,  Jib  told  her  when  he  came 
home,  and  Jib  had  also  volunteered  the  observation  that  he 
guessed  he  had  good  grit,  because  between  him  and  the 
doctor  they  hurt  him  like  thunder  and  he  didn't  let  on. 
Among  qualities  native  and  ineradicable  of  the  female 
character,  tutored  and  untutored  alike,  is  the  admiration 
for  the  faculty  of  showing  good  grit  when  one  is  hurt  like 
thunder,  and  the  observation,  though  not  a  surprising  one, 
had  had  its  full  effect  upon  Rhodope.  It  must  be  weari 
some  for  him  to  stay  indoors  so  long.  It  was  a  week  now 
since  it  happened.  To  be  sure  he  had  many  people  to  pre 
vent  his  being  lonesome.  She  saw  again  the  picture  framed 
by  the  farm-house  window — certainly,  he  had  not  been  lonely 
that  day.  As  Medcott  had  realized,  to  Rhodope's  simplicity 
that  glimpse  had  meant  more  than  experience  would  have 
seen  in  it.  Mentally  she  reviewed  every  line,  every  detail 
of  Florence  Needham's  dainty  prettiness.  It  was  not  yet 
time  for  her  to  contrast  it  with  her  own  deficiencies  of  man 
ner  and  costume;  she  did  not  put  herself  in  juxtaposition 
with  this  charming  woman  at  all.  Yet,  without  comprehen 
sion,  without  preparation,  it  flashed  across  her  that  it  was  at 
her,  not  at  Mrs.  Needham,  that  he  had  looked,  when  she 
first  caught  that  intent  gaze  in  the  meadow  ;  that  it  was  she 
who  had  seen  that  long,  eager  glance  that  had  said  some 
thing —  what,  she  did  not  know — when  he  had  taken  the 
flowers  from  her  hands.  This  was  not  a  thought,  it  was  a 
realization — and  she  turned  from  it  with  a  frightened  shy 
ness,  but  it  had  come,  not  without  results.  She  remembered 
vaguely  that  his  companion  was  Mrs.  Needham ;  she  was 
married  then ;  but  she  did  not  formulate  her  sense  of  a  cer 
tain  incongruity  between  the  fact  and  her  view  of  their  rela 
tions.  She  was  too  unheeding  to  do  this,  and  innocently 


WHITE  BIRCHES  29 

and  naturally  what  she  had  retained  of  the  little  scene  she 
had  witnessed  was  that  commonly  accepted  impression  sug 
gested  by  the  sight  of  a  handsome  man  with  a  pretty  woman 
by  his  side.  She  was  as  far  from  being  troubled  by  the 
social  aspects  of  the  question  as  from  deliberately  analyzing 
the  scene  at  all.  Her  reverie  this  morning  was  a  succession 
of  fleeting  reminiscences,  as  vague,  intangible,  and  shifting 
as  the  mist  wreaths  on  the  sides  of  Mystery  Mountain. 
Yet  with  the  same  sense  of  relief  that  he  had  experienced, 
her  thoughts  flew  back  to  the  quiet  wood  where  she  had 
first  seen  Austin  Medcott. 

"Miss  Rhodope,"  said  Belinda  Thompson,  coming  around 
from  the  back  door,  "  will  you  please  come  and  see  about 
the  butter  ?"  Belinda's  given  name  was  Jane,  but  she  shared 
the  literary  proclivities  of  the  family  whom  she  helped  now 
and  then  with  the  butter  sufficiently  to  confide  to  Rhodope 
that  she  had  become  dissatisfied  with  the  bald  simplicity  of 
Jane,  and  that  even  Jenny  failed  to  satisfy  her  completely, 
and  consequently  she  begged  her  to  give  her  a  choice  of 
book -names.  With  this  request  Rhodope  had  complied, 
and  it  had  resulted  in  the  semi-adoption  of  Belinda,  by 
which  name  Miss  Thompson  was  known  to  a  limited  but 
increasing  circle. 

The  butter  had  been  seen  to,  and  had  come  out  in  deli 
cious,  creamy  balls.  It  still  rained,  and  Rhodope  started 
down  the  lane  for  the  daily  paper.  Jib  had  offered  to  go, 
and  Uncle  Denver  had  made  a  feint  of  sending  him  ;  but 
Rhodope  would  not  listen  to  either  of  them,  and  the  fact  of 
her  going  out  in  the  rain  did  not  call  for  a  second  thought. 
It  has  been  frequently  observed  that  the  old-fashioned 
waterproof,  worn  before  these  days  of  mackintoshes  that 
cheat  you  into  believing  that  they  are  meant  for  pleasant 
weather,  lacked  artistic  charm.  It  was  one  of  these  that 
hung  upon  Rhodope's  superb  figure.  It  was  too  short,  and 


30  WHITE  BIRCHES 

somewhat  too  narrow  across  the  shoulders ;  moreover,  the 
little  slits  for  her  arms  to  come  through  had  very  much  the 
air  of  being  in  the  wrong  place.  She  wore  a  cap  of  Jib's, 
which  was  masculine  without  being  jaunty,  and,  altogether, 
it  was  quite  fortunate  that  it  was  a  beautiful  woman  and 
not  a  plain  one  who  had  involved  herself  in  these  disad 
vantages.  She  went  to  the  post-office,  which  lacked  its  fair- 
weather  environment  of  lads  in  tennis  clothes  and  lasses  in 
imitative  flannels,  and  presented  only  its  normal  features  of 
waiting  teamsters,  patient  market-wagons,  intermittent  loaf 
ers,  and  unhurried  conversation,  all  engulfed  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  mud,  dampness,  and  general  want  of  enterprise. 
On  her  way  home,  with  the  paper  hidden  in  the  angular  re 
cesses  of  the  old-fashioned  waterproof,  she  looked  up  and 
before  her  with  the  thought,  "  It  will  clear,  the  clouds  are 
breaking  away  from  Monument " — and  it  had  stopped  rain 
ing  when  she  came  to  the  little  lane.  Towards  her  was 
coming  a  wagon  with  a  single  occupant,  who  waved  his 
hand  to  her  and  spoke  as  she  was  about  to  turn  off  the 
road,  and  she  waited  until  he  drew  up  his  horse  beside  her. 
As  he  did  so  his  expression  grew  to  one  of  wonder  and  sur 
prise.  Jib's  cap  was  pushed  back,  her  brown  hair  clung  to 
her  low  forehead,  and  she  had  let  the  waterproof  slip  away 
a  little  from  her  fine  throat.  Tom  Davenant  nearly  stam 
mered  as  he  said, 

"  Pardon  me  for  stopping  you — but  I  thought  you  might 
be  able  to  tell  me  if  I  am  on  the  correct  way  to  the  abode 
of  one  Israel  Clock."  He  spoke  slowly,  with  a  detaining 
drawl,  and  his  face  was  perfectly  serious,  unlighted  by  the 
glimmer  of  the  smile  which  would  have  been  the  homage 
paid  by  most  men  to  Rhodope  Trent.  As  she  answered 
him  she  felt  none  of  the  swift  embarrassment,  the  thrilling 
consciousness  which  had  surprised  her  in  her  first  meeting 
with  Austin  Medcott.  She  saw  and  liked  his  solemn  coun- 


WHITE  BIRCHES  31 

tenance,  which  bore  unmistakable  signs  of  ill-health,  and 
which,  in  spite  of  the  cynical  twist  of  the  mouth  and  the 
little  frown  between  the  eyebrows,  was  an  attractive  one. 

"  You  follow  this  road,"  she  answered,  "  until  you  come 
to  one  that  crosses  it  by  a  house  with  a  windmill ;  then  your 
way  lies  westward  and  turns  into  a  field,  and  leads  you 
where  you  see  the  house — it's  the  only  one  anywhere  near." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  "  I  will  proceed  to  search  for 
windmills  with  all  the  ardor  of  — "  he  felt  that  he  was 
making  a  foolish  allusion  for  the  circumstances,  and  paused. 

"Of  Don  Quixote,"  said  Rhodope  simply.  "Well,  you 
won't  find  but  one  round  here." 

Tom  Davenant  was  a  man  so  rarely  surprised  that  the 
two  shocks  he  had  experienced  in  the  last  five  minutes 
threatened  to  overwhelm  him,  but,  with  much  presence  of 
mind  he  repeated, 

"  Of  Don  Quixote — exactly,  thank  you  again,"  and,  rais 
ing  his  hat  for  the  second  time,  he  drove  on,  and  Rhodope 
turned  into  the  little  lane. 

"  Bless  me  !"  ejaculated  Davenant,  as  he  left  the  scene  of 
the  interview  behind  him.  "  Is  that  the  common  wayside 
species  about  here  ?  If  it  is,  I  don't  wonder  Medcott  fell 
down  and  hurt  himself.  A  man  has  to  prostrate  himself 
before  such  divinities.  I'm  blessed  if  she  didn't  know  who 
Don  Quixote  was,  as  well  as  looking  so  disgracefully  pretty 
in  that  old  waterproof  !  I  say  it's  an  outrage."  And  as  his 
horse,  somewhat  spent  by  a  twenty-mile  drive,  jogged  slowly 
on,  he  pulled  a  note-book  out  of  his  pocket  and  made  an  en 
try  or  two.  "Valley — setting  sun  breaking  through — moun 
tain  mists — regular  thing.  Wet  road — golden  rod — tall, 
beautiful  girl — irregular  thing — Naiad  in  a  waterproof — in 
congruous."  He  perused  this  fragmentary  description  with 
some  satisfaction.  "  Not  a  bad  idea — that  last,"  he  con 
cluded,  with  some  complacency,  and  picked  up  the  reins. 


32  WHITE  BIRCHES 

"  So  my  way  lies  to  the  westward,  does  it  ?"  he  meditated 
later  on,  as  he  reached  the  house  with  the  windmill.  "  Now 
what,  in  the  name  of  the  Yankee  dialect,  made  her  say  that ! 
I  believe  she's  a  masquerader." 

The  second  week  of  Medcott's  helplessness  found  him 
outwardly  resigned,  as  the  object  of  so  much  unremitting  at 
tention  from  all  the  occupants  of  the  Clock  house  could  not 
fail  to  be,  but  inwardly  somewhat  inclined  to  fret  against  the 
overrulings  of  Providence.  He  was  out  on  the  piazza  to 
day,  and  was  turning  to  the  account  of  one  of  his  fellow- 
lodgers  some  of  his  monotonous  moments  by  criticising  the 
sketches  of  a  young  woman  who  was  bent  upon  reproducing 
some  of  the  scenes  which  so  deeply  impressed  her  suscepti 
ble  soul.  The  fact  that  if  she  drew  a  hawk  it  was  as  likely 
as  not  to  look  like  a  handsaw  would  have  discouraged  some 
critics  with  half  Medcott's  ability ;  but  he  was  very  good- 
tempered  and  tolerant  of  harmless  pleasure,  artistic  or  other 
wise.  As  he  raised  his  eyes  and  his  arm  to  point  out  some 
peculiarity  by  way  of  instructive  illustration,  he  disconcerted 
his  pupil  by  a  sudden  exclamation, 

"  By  Jove  !  That  looks — it  certainly  is — old  Tom  Dave 
nant!"  All  the  occupants  of  the  piazza-chairs  looked  up 
the  misty  road. 

"  Who  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Needham  incredulously,  from 
the  other  end  of  the  piazza. 

"  Tom  Davenant,"  repeated  Medcott,  noticing  nothing  un 
usual  in  her  voice,  his  eyes  being  fixed  upon  the  approach 
ing  wagon  from  which  Davenant  was  waving  his  hat.  Mrs. 
Needham  rose  and  went  to  the  edge  of  the  piazza.  She 
flushed  deeply  and  then  the  color  faded,  leaving  her  a  little 
paler  than  usual.  She  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  vines,  and 
from  there  she  watched  the  arrival  and  Medcott's  enthusi 
astic  greeting. 

The   ambitious   pupil   had   disappeared,  and   only  two 


WHITE  BIRCHES  33 

women,  one  of  whom  was  reading  aloud  to  her  companion, 
remained  on  the  piazza.  She  stepped  quietly  forward  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Davenant,"  she  said,  her  blue  eyes 
meeting  his  with  that  trick  of  softness  in  their  shallow 
brightness.  If  she  had  expected  any  unusual  development, 
she  was  disappointed. 

"  Florence,  upon  my  word  !  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Need- 
ham,"  drawled  Davenant,  shaking  her  hand  cordially. 

"  Any  more  old  friends  concealed  about  the  vines  ?"  he 
asked,  looking  anxiously  behind  her.  "Well,  I'm  glad  to 
find  you  so's  to  sit  up  and  take  a  cracker,  Medcott. 
Thought  as  I  didn't  have  anything  particular  to  do — never 
do  it  now-a-days  if  I  have,  you  know,"  and  he  smiled  his 
brief,  melancholy  smile — "  I'd  look  you  up  and  cheer  your 
hours  of  suffering.  Didn't  know  you  had  Mrs.  Needham  to 
do  it  for  you,"  and  his  eyes  rested  on  her  with  that  tolerant 
solemnity  which  was  characteristic. 

"  I  can't  cheer  him,"  laughed  Florence,  a  little  nervously; 
"  I  can  only  pacify  him,  and  read  him  things  he  doesn't 
want  to  hear.  I  need  cheering  myself." 

"Don't  believe  it,"  asserted  Davenant  calmly.  "You 
were  always  cheerful.  One  of  the  most  conscientiously 
cheerful  people  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  he  added  slowly,  as 
she  disappeared  in  the  doorway.  When  she  looked  back 
from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  with  some  idea  of  answering 
him,  he  had  seated  himself  by  Medcott's  side,  and  was  giv 
ing  some  directions  about  his  horse  to  the  man  who  had 
come  to  take  it. 

She  went  up  the  stairs  biting  her  lips,  and  did  not  come 
down  until  supper-time.  Then  she  came,  looking  charming 
in  a  blue  gown,  which  to  every  end  of  its  watered  ribbon 
was  a  daintiness  and  a  provocation. 

"  I  found  my  way  here,"  said  Davenant  at  the  table, 
3 


34  WHITE  BIRCHES 

"  thanks  to  a  most  exhilaratingly  pretty  young  person  whom 
I  met  in  the  road.  She  had  beautiful  eyes  joined  to  a  lam 
entable  ignorance  of  that  fact,  which  was  a  snare  in  itself. 
I  have  reason  to  think  that  she  lived  up  a  lane,  and  her 
clothes  were  most  inappropriate." 

"  Oh,  Rhodope  Trent,  of  course  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Need- 
ham,  with  her  sparkling  laugh.  "  Don't  say  any  more  !  So 
you  fell  in  with  her  too !  She  seems  to  go  about  succoring 
distressed  gentlemen  —  something  between  an  ambulance 
and  a  sign-post.  We  are  all  in  love  with  her." 

"  I  should  know  you  were,"  drawled  Davenant.  "  I  don't 
wonder,  I'm  sure." 

"  I'm  not  such  an  authority  as  Mr.  Medcott,"  said  Flor 
ence,  her  voice  harder  and  brighter  than  ever.  "  He  knows 
all  about  her." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  by  any  means,"  said  Medcott  from  his  sofa, 
"  I  only  know  she  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life." 

"  Ah,"  said  Davenant  sadly,  "  my  dear  fellow,  you  con 
firm  my  gravest  apprehensions.  I'd  begun  to  fear  the  same 
thing  about  my  own  experience.  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Need- 
ham,  I  will  have  some  berries,  please." 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  pronounced  hostility  Mrs. 
Needham  had  begun  quite  early  to  feel  towards  Rhodope 
was  in  danger  of  being  increased,  rather  than  lessened,  by 
circumstances. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"By  indirections  find  directions  out." 
"If  she  grow  suddenly  gracious — reflect.     Is  it  all  for  thee?" 

FLORENCE  NEEDHAM  was  a  victim  of  social  ambition,  and, 
like  the  lunatic  of  Scripture,  she  was  sore  vexed  by  this  dis 
order  and  ofttimes  it  cast  her  into  the  fire.  The  most  dis 
astrous  example  of  a  catastrophe  of  this  kind,  one  to  which 
she  looked  back  with  a  regret,  the  special  bitterness  of 
which  is  one  of  the  penalties  of  this  form  of  disease,  was 
her  throwing  over  Tom  Davenant  when  they  were  both 
very  young.  Her  subsequent  marriage  with  Charlie  Need- 
ham,  though  not  to  be  classed  as  a  social  failure,  lacked 
that  distinctive  success  that  she  had  hoped  from  it,  and, 
when  contrasted  with  what  might  have  been  the  results  of 
that  other,  acquired  the  properties  of  a  mistake.  But  when 
Florence  Evans  was  eighteen  and  Tom  Davenant  was  twen 
ty-four,  and  her  beauty  was  turning  the  heads  of  most  of 
the  men  of  her  acquaintance,  he,  though  belonging  to  an 
unexceptionable  family,  and  sustaining  excellent,  though 
somewhat  limited  social  relations,  was  only  a  rather  lazy, 
easy-going  young  fellow,  whom  his  friends  called  clever,  and 
who  was  culpably  indifferent  to  what  is  ordinarily  consid 
ered  success  either  in  life  or  society.  He  fell  in  love  with 
Florence  Evans  the  first  evening  he  saw  her,  and,  somewhat 
perplexed  by  the  strength  of  his  own  emotions,  he  tried 
hard  to  win  her.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  tried  hard  to 
do  anything,  and  he  developed  a  good  deal  of  persistent 
power  ;  and  as  Florence  had  told  herself  since,  with  irritated 


36  WHITE    BIRCHES 

frankness,  she  had  liked  him  quite  well  enough  to  marry 
him.  But  he  was  not  rich,  and  his  undoubted  talent,  the 
belief  in  whose  existence  she  took,  as  she  took  every  other 
conclusion  she  had  ever  come  to  in  her  life,  from  the  au 
thority  of  some  one  whom  she  recognized  as  competent  to 
pronounce,  seemed  of  the  untransmutable  kind,  and  she 
saw  no  prospect  of  achieving  any  particular  position  as  his 
wife.  He  was  so  incomprehensibly  indifferent,  too,  to  the 
advantages  within  his  grasp,  so  given  over  to  liking  the 
people  who  pleased  him  and  associating  with  those  whom 
he  found  congenial,  without  reference  to  more  solid,  social 
grounds,  that  she  felt  him  to  be  beyond  reformation.  Mean 
while  Charlie  Needham,  the  only  son  of  a  very  rich  man, 
who  died  just  as  Charlie  reached  his  majority,  a  young  fel 
low  also  of  thoroughly  respectable  social  conditions,  popu 
lar,  and  though  somewhat  light,  not  by  any  means  stupid, 
and  unreasonably  in  love  with  her,  put  his  name  and  fort 
une  at  her  disposal.  It  was  not  surprising  that  without 
even  a  temporary  mislaying  of  the  calculating  faculties  of 
her  pretty  head,  she  made  her  choice  between  these  two 
suitors,  and  married  Charlie  Needham,  while  Tom  Dave- 
nant  went  to  Europe.  For  a  time  her  husband's  beautiful 
presents  and  the  honors  of  her  new  position  completely 
satisfied  her,  and  she  saw  her  dreams  realized ;  but  those 
same  calculating  faculties  were  by  no  means  sunk  in  the 
sloth  of  a  grand  passion,  and  she  very  soon  perceived  that 
her  career  was  not  to  be  from  glory  to  glory,  but  rather,  she 
must  learn  to  be  contented  in  the  unexceptionable,  though 
somewhat  commonplace,  environment  in  which  she  found 
herself.  She  had  fancied  that  she  could  rouse  Needham's 
ambition,  of  which  he  had  seemed  to  have  enough,  and, 
with  his  fortune  to  help  her,  could  make  her  house  a  resort 
for  the  richest  and  greatest  of  the  circle  of  which  she  formed 
a  part,  and  herself  become  a  social  leader  of  wide  acknowl- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  37 

edgment.  She  had  known  that  her  husband  was  entirely 
under  her  sway,  that  he  admired  her  beauty  and  her  taste, 
and  was  the  willing  slave  of  her  charm,  and  she  thought 
that  she  could  do  with  him  as  she  chose — a  mistake  made 
often  enough,  and  upon  slighter  grounds  than  there  were  in 
this  case.  But  she  had  reckoned  without  one  fatal  defect 
in  Needham's  character,  knowledge  of  which  had  been  slow 
ly  coining  to  her,  that  of  his  dissatisfaction  with  whatever 
he  happened  to  have  within  his  grasp.  To  be  sure,  he  was 
still  the  admirer  of  her  beauty  and  taste,  still  her  lover,  but 
her  influence  was  no  longer  paramount.  He  knew  her  char 
acter  more  thoroughly,  of  course,  and  though  he  did  not 
recognize  her  shallowness,  he  had  begun  to  question  and  to 
doubt.  He  wondered  if  he  had  been  quite  wise  in  marry 
ing  her,  even  as  he  looked  at  her  with  passionate  admira 
tion.  It  is  only  fair  to  Florence  to  admit  that  had  she  been 
a  creature  quite  too  bright  and  good,  Charlie  Needham 
would  have  questioned  and  doubted  with  equal  dissatisfac 
tion.  Now,  had  he  been  like  some  other  men,  this  very 
quality  might  have  proved  a  stepping-stone  of  ambition.  It 
might  have  roused  him  to  make  some  sort  of  advance  in 
life  outside  of  his  home,  and  she  might  have  attained  her 
ends  the  more  quickly.  But  it  was  not  so  with  Needham ; 
he  simply  lost  much  of  the  interest  she  had  awakened  in 
earlier  days  ;  and  admitting  the  misgiving  that  it  was  not  all 
he  had  fancied  to  have  a  beautiful  wife  and  a  pretty  house, 
he  found  amusement  in  speculation  and  his  club,  making 
up,  in  small,  daily  excitements,  for  the  lack  of  one  powerful 
motive  of  existence.  Florence  herself  had  a  certain  vogue, 
but,  after  all,  her  position  was  only  that  of  countless  other 
pretty,  rich,  young  married  women,  and  she  longed  for 
something  more  elevated  and  more  distinctive.  There  were 
exacting  circles  into  which  even  Charlie  Needham's  money 
and  her  beauty  and  aplomb  did  not  take  her,  where  she  as- 


38  WHITE    BIRCHES 

pired  to  shine.  Having  reached  what  had  once  been  the 
acme  of  her  ambition  in  the  way  of  dinner-service  and 
gowns,  she  naturally  looked  higher.  In  this  situation  she 
found  herself  when  Tom  Davenant  returned  from  Europe 
and  the  irony  of  fate  was  manifested.  While  abroad  he  had 
met  with  divers  experiences.  He  had  undergone  a  bad  at 
tack  of  Roman  fever,  which  had  left  him  a  good  deal  of  an 
invalid,  and  he  had  written  certain  letters  for  various  peri 
odicals  which  had  directed  towards  him  the  applause  of  a 
class  whose  approval  is  best  worth  having.  He  came  to 
New  York  and  went  into  journalism  with  the  way  made 
plain  before  him  by  popular  appreciation.  Since  then  he 
had  written  a  successful  book,  and  though  his  ill -health 
forced  him  to  make  his  application  somewhat  desultory,  his 
acknowledged  talent  obtained  for  him  plenty  of  well-paid 
opportunities  for  such  work  as  he  chose  to  do.  He  would 
probably  never  be  rich,  and  apparently  cared  not  at  all  to 
be,  while  he  had  money  enough  to  prevent  his  being  cut 
off  from  any  rational  pleasure;  but  he  went  where  he  chose, 
and  was  much  in  demand  at  all  sorts  of  exclusive  entertain 
ments.  Florence  Needham  read  his  name  as  one  among 
the  people  invited  to  meet  the  latest  celebrities,  and  laid 
down  the  paper  to  remember,  with  pitiable  clearness,  that 
this  Tom  Davenant,  the  cleverness  of  whose  verses  was  pro 
verbial,  had  once  been  writing  sonnets  to  her  eyebrow,  or 
something  very  much  like  it.  It  was  three  years  ago  that  he 
had  come  home  and  found  the  entrance  into  that  charmed 
circle  open  to  him,  and  she  had  never  seen  him  until  he 
stepped  down  from  the  wagon  in  front  of  Israel  Clock's. 
It  had  not  been  her  fault  that  this  was  so.  She  had  sought 
in  more  ways  than  one  to  bring  about  a  meeting;  she  had 
even  invited  him  to  her  house ;  but  he  travelled  a  great 
deal,  he  affected  no  wide  social  popularity,  his  work  and 
his  health  both  forbade  it — and  chance,  aided  by  his  disin- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  39 

clination,  had  made  her  unsuccessful.  As  she  stood  in  the 
shade  of  the  vines  and  saw  his  meeting  with  Medcott,  she 
was  startled  at  the  change  in  him.  He  had  not  been  so 
thin  and  so  melancholy-looking  in  the  old  days,  and  she 
felt  with  a  thrill  of  unmistakable  satisfaction  that  the  exile, 
from  which  he  had  returned  a  different  man,  had  been  her 
doing.  If  he  had  avoided  her  these  three  years,  it  must  be 
because  he  still  feared  her  power,  and  it  was  with  this 
thought  that  she  stepped  forward  and  called  him  by  name. 
His  matter-of-course  way  of  receiving  her  greeting  had  been 
a  surprise,  but,  with  the  obtuseness  of  a  pretty  woman,  she 
could  not  believe  that  Tom  Davenant,  with  the  same  odd, 
bright  manner  of  speech,  the  same  drawling  intonation,  the 
same  easy  naturalness,  unspoiled  by  flattery  and  success, 
was  not  the  same  Tom  Davenant  still.  This  morning  she 
watched  him  from  her  window,  as  in  a  suit  of  unimpeacha 
ble  flannels  he  stood  beneath  her  by  the  piazza  steps  talk 
ing  to  Medcott. 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  place  around  here,"  he  was  saying 
as  he  lit  a  cigarette — he  was  one  of  those  men  who  always 
seem  to  be  lighting  a  cigarette — "  where  there  isn't  any  water 
fall,  or  any  brook,  or  any  view  of  the  mountains — any  ex 
acting  view  that  is  to  say — or  anybody  playing  tennis  within 
hearing,  and  where  it  is  shady  and  cool  and  nobody  else 
goes,  and  that  isn't  more  than  an  easy  quarter  of  a  mile 
off?" 

Medcott  pondered  a  moment,  lazily  smiling,  his  arms  un 
der  his  head.  , 

"Well,  as  it  happens,  I  do,"  he  answered,  "but  I  don't 
know  that  you  deserve  to  be  told,  coming  over  here  into 
our  quiet  valley  and  making  your  requisitions.  What  do 
you  want  to  cut  yourself  off  from  human  companionship 
for?" 

"  I  have  a  book  that  must  be  reviewed  before  to-morrow. 


40  WHITE    BIRCHES 

It's  neither  very  good  nor  very  bad,  so  I'll  have  to  put 
my  mind  on  it  to  make  a  readable  notice.  After  it's  done, 
I  am  at  your  service." 

"Go  through  the  field  to  the  left,"  directed  Medcott, 
while  Mrs.  Needham  leaned  a  little  forward  and  listened 
intently.  "  Climb  the  fence  where  there  is  a  broken  bar, 
and  you'll  find  a  cow-path ;  follow  it  and  you'll  come  to  a 
scrap  of  pine  woods  that  ought  to  serve  your  felonious 
purpose." 

With  a  nod  Davenant  picked  up  his  book  and  walked  off 
through  the  field,  Florence  following  him  with  her  eyes.  He 
was  not  the  same  Tom  Davenant.  That  one  would  have 
never  walked  carelessly  from  the  house  which  held  her ;  but 
he  had  not  married,  at  least,  and  people  talked  about  an 
unhappy  attachment,  of  course — they  always  did  under  such 
circumstances,  but  no  one  knew  quite  as  much  about  that 
as  she  did.  She  looked  in  her  mirror  and  smiled ;  she  had 
grown  stout,  to  be  sure,  but  she  hadn't  gone  off  much  since 
Tom  Davenant  loved  her.  Half  an  hour  later,  avoiding  the 
piazza  by  a  wide  circuit,  she  stood  at  the  fence  where  one 
of  the  rails  was  broken. 

Davenant  had  written  a  few  lines  of  his  book -notice 
where  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  pine-tree,  enjoying  the  still 
ness  of  the  woods  and  their  fresh  fragrance.  Suddenly  this 
silence  was  broken  by  the  swish  of  a  woman's  dress,  and 
the  sound  of  quick  steps  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  come. 

He  raised  himself  from  his  half -reclining  position  and 
looked  curiously  around.  As  he  saw  Mrs.  Needham's  face 
and  figure  and  caught  her  smile  of  greeting,  with  the  silent 
ejaculation  "Given  away,  as  I'm  a  sinner!"  he  rose  with 
all  the  alacrity  of  a  civil  welcome. 

"  So  you  are  here !"  exclaimed  Florence.  "  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  wondered  if  I  shouldn't  come  across  you.  I  wanted 


WHITE   BIRCHES  41 

a  walk,  and  so  I  half  fancied  did  you.  This  little  path 
keeps  straight  on  and  comes  out  on  the  road.  Did  you 
start  to  find  it  and  become  discouraged  ?" 

She  stopped  as  she  spoke  and,  a  little  out  of  breath, 
leaned  against  the  nearest  tree,  swinging  her  parasol  idly. 

"  I  came  out  to  find  a  book-notice  and  became  discour 
aged,"  he  replied  gravely. 

"Does  that  mean  that  I  am  discouraging  you?"  she 
asked  saucily,  but  showing  no  sign  of  departure. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  came  along  just  as  I  was  sighing  for  an  in 
spiration,"  he  drawled ;  "  nothing  could  be  more  oppor 
tune." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ask  me  to  stay,  now  I'm  here  ?" 
she  said  laughing. 

"  I  was  waiting  to  find  out  whether  you  mean  to  do  that, 
or  to  have  me  go  on  with  you  to  the  road,"  he  replied  im 
movably. 

She  gave  him  a  quick  glance  of  interrogation. 

"  You  speak  as  if  you  were  ready  to  do  what  I  wanted 
you  to,"  she  said,  as  she  sank  down  on  the  carpet  of  pine- 
needles. 

"  That  is  a  manner  of  speaking,"  said  Davenant  coolly, 
as  he  seated  himself  beside  her  and  put  his  pen  in  his 
pocket.  "It  saves  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  gives 
pleasure  to  the  hearer." 

"  And  doesn't  mean  anything,  I  suppose." 

"Few  of  us  ever  mean  anything,"  he  asserted.  "We  all 
find  that  out  early  in  life — so  much  the  better  for  some  of 
us — Mrs.  Needham  included,  without  doubt:" 

The  conversation  bade  fair  to  take  the  sentimental  tone 
she  longed  to  give  it,  but  there  was  an  absence  of  regret  in 
his  tone  which  was  not  altogether  encouraging.  On  the 
whole  she  concluded  that  to  sigh  and  look  a  trifle  pensive 
would  not  be  detrimental,  which  conclusion  she  carried 


42  WHITE    BIRCHES 

into  immediate  effect.  Davenant  watched  her,  his  serious 
mouth  taking  on  its  cynical  droop  as  he  studied  every  item 
of  the  beauty  he  had  once  found  so  powerful.  With  his 
cigarette  between  his  teeth,  and  without  a  shade  of  the 
emotion  that  had  once  thrilled  him,  he  marked  the  curve  of 
the  cheek,  a  little  fuller  than  it  had  been,  but  still  almost 
faultless,  the  babyish  mouth,  the  upward  tilt  of  the  eye 
lashes  from  the  lowered  lids ;  it  was  so  long  since  he  had 
seen  them  that  it  was  an  idle  pleasure  to  revive  his  mem 
ory  of  each  detail.  Conscious  of  his  scrutiny,  Florence 
kept  her  eyes  down  and  her  head  averted,  until  the  silence 
grew  too  long,  then  lifting  her  liquid  blue  eyes  to  his  with 
all  the  air  of  one  who,  in  a  few  suffering  moments,  has  said 
good-by  to  a  too  sweet  past,  said  softly, 

"  You  didn't  call  me  Mrs.  Needham  once — I  don't  like 
the  sound  of  it." 

Davenant  removed  his  cigarette,  while  a  look  of  dim 
amusement  came  into  his  eyes  and  vanished  again. 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  he  answered  easily,  "  you  know  it  might 
have  created  remark  at  the  time.  I  never  saw  you  after 
you  were  married,  so  I  was  obliged  to  call  you  Miss  Evans 
to  the  last." 

She  smiled,  and  then  drew  her  red  lips  together  with  an 
air  of  affront. 

"  You  used  to  call  me  Florence,"  she  said  quickly. 

"  In  moments  of  expansion — yes,"  he  assented  thought 
fully.  "  So  I  did.  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  if,  in  moments  of 
expansion,  I  should  call  you  Florence  now.  If  I  do,  I  trust 
to  your  memory  to  pardon  the  indiscretion." 

"  Why  have  you  avoided  me  all  this  time  ?"  she  demand 
ed  boldly. 

"Avoided  you!"  he  exclaimed  with  lazy  injury,  "when 
I've  come  all  the  way  from  Stonewall  Pond  to  put  up  at  the 
house  where  you  are  !" 


WHITE    BIRCHES  43 

His  deliberate  evasions  irritated  her. 

"  Did  you  know  I  was  here  ?"  she  asked  heedlessly. 

"That  is  neither  here  nor  there,"  he  replied  with  exas 
perating  coolness.  "  But  if  I  had,  I  assure  you  I  shouldn't 
have  stayed  away.  You  are  most  unjust,"  he  added  with 
melancholy  gravity. 

"  I  heard  early  in  the  summer  that  the  Swains  were  com 
ing  here  this  year,"  she  said.  The  amused  look  dawned 
again  in  Davenant's  eyes.  He  knew  so  well  the  key  of  this 
not  very  complex  character.  He  had  wondered  what  had 
brought  Florence  Needham  and  her  likings  and  her  extrav 
agances  to  this  quiet  place  when  there  was  so  little  chance 
to  display  either. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"I  wonder  where  they  went,"  she  resumed. 

"They  are  at  Stonewall  Pond."  She  glanced  at  him 
sharply. 

"  Did  you  see  them  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Been  staying  with  them,"  he  replied,  leaning  forward  to 
light  another  cigarette.  She  was  silent  a  moment.  Here 
was  another  adverse  turn  of  the  wheel  her  own  hands  had 
set  in  motion.  As  Tom  Davenant's  wife  she  might  have 
stayed  with  the  rich  and  artistic  Swains. 

"Well,"  she  said  at  last,  "they're  nice  people." 

He  nodded  in  assent  and  idly  pitched  small  lumps  of 
loose  earth  at  a  caterpillar  whose  furry  existence  was  there 
by  endangered. 

"  Have  you  known  Austin  Medcott  long  ?"  she  asked. 

"Very  long." 

"  He's  an  attractive  man,"  she  remarked  impersonally. 

"Too  attractive  by  half.  He  has  gone  about  being  attrac 
tive  long  enough.  He  ought  to  marry  and  settle  down." 

"  Do  people  cease  being  attractive  when  they  marry  and 
settle  down  ?"  asked  Florence  with  alarmed  coquetry. 


44  WHITE   BIRCHES 

"Not  if  their  settling  down  is  of  the  butterfly  order,"  he 
replied  with  a  slow  smile.  "  Then  it  is  merely  an  added 
opportunity  to  show  off  one's  advantages." 

Florence  was  only  partially  appeased  by  the  flattering 
implication. 

"But  Mr.  Medcott  is  no  foolish  butterfly,  I  suppose?" 

"  No,"  he  rejoined ;  "  but  you  must  allow  me  to  point  out, 
by  way  of  avoiding  future  recrimination,  that  you,  not  I,  ap 
plied  the  adjective.  I  should  never  dare  call  so  brilliant  a 
thing  as  a  butterfly,  foolish.  It  sometimes  seems  to  me,"  he 
added  thoughtfully,  "  that  they  have  quite  as  much  worldly 
wisdom  as,  for  example,  the  chastely  adorned  bumble-bee." 

It  had  always  been  an  objection  to  Tom  Davenant,  in 
Florence  Needham's  eyes,  that  he  had  a  way  of  saying 
things  whose  meaning  one  could  not  be  quite  sure  of. 
She  was  by  no  means  a  dull  woman,  and  she  naturally  re 
sented  this.  The  introduction  of  worldly  wisdom  would 
not  have  troubled  her  particularly  if  she  had  been  quite 
sure  it  contained  a  personal  allusion,  but  she  did  not  wish 
to  make  a  mistake.  Consequently  she  left  the  observation 
unanswered. 

"  I've  often  heard  the  Mevans  speak  of  him,"  she  said — 
"the  Rodman  Mevans,  you  know.  Perhaps,"  and  she 
laughed,  "he  may  find  his  inspiration  in  Rhodope  Trent." 

"Ah,"  said  Davenant  to  himself,  "so  at  last  we  have 
gotten  round  to  Rhodope  Trent !  He  may,"  he  assented 
aloud.  "  Now  that  you  suggest  it,  it  seems  to  me  not  un 
likely." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suggest  it !"  disclaimed  Florence.  "  It  is 
already  suggested.  I  am  sure  that  would  be  settling  down 
— very  much  indeed." 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  pretty  decisive,"  said  Davenant 
absently.  "  She  strikes  me  as  a  woman  who  would  absorb 
a  man's  best  efforts." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  45 

"  I  declare,"  said  Florence,  rising  and  shaking  the  pine- 
needles  from  her  gown  with  quick,  impatient  motions,  "  I 
believe  I'll  ask  this  " — and  she  hesitated. 

"  Juno — Hebe — I  beg  pardon  !  Sign-post — Ambulance," 
murmured  Davenant 

"  This  paragon  to  go  with  us  next  week  to  the  Pond — we 
are  planning  a  picnic — and  give  you  and  Mr.  Medcott  a 
chance  to  see  how  she  appears  in  polite  society." 

"  How  nice  of  you !"  he  said  admiringly,  as  he  picked  up 
her  handkerchief.  "  I  hope  it  won't  rain,  because  if  it  does 
she'll  wear  that  waterproof.  Now  she's  nice  in  that  water 
proof — no  one  knows  that  better  than  I — but  my  diseased 
fancy  longs  for  something  more  brilliant,  of  gayer  plumage 
— something  less  like  a  chrysalis." 

"  Oh,  she'll  be  gay  enough,  I've  no  doubt,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Needham.  "  She'll  probably  wear  a  green  and  blue  plaid 
skirt  and  a  red  jersey — beaded — with  white  cotton  lace  in 
the  sleeves.  We  dress  a  good  deal  for  picnics  up  this 
way !" 

The  pine-trees  shot  up  far  above  into  the  hot  morning 
sky.  Their  spicy  fragrance  mingled  with  that  of  Davenant's 
cigarette.  The  rough  path  wormed  itself  into  a  hollow  and 
disappeared.  She  stood  beside  him,  her  cheek  flushed  with 
annoyance,  but  her  white  teeth  gleaming  in  her  ready  smile, 
while  he,  lying  on  the  warm  ground,  looked  up  at  her  from 
under  the  turned-down  brim  of  his  felt  hat.  With  that 
swift  association  of  place,  persons,  and  perfume  that  we 
have  all  experienced,  there  flashed  into  his  memory  a  simi 
lar  scene,  years  ago — he  had  hardly  thought  of  it  since. 
They  two  had  been  in  a  wood  together  then,  and  he  had 
lain  at  her  feet  and  looked  up  at  her,  a  vision  of  utter  love 
liness,  and  she  had  smiled  down  into  his  eyes,  reading 
easily  what  was  written  there.  And  now — she  was  Charlie 
Needham's  wife  and  a  good  deal  heavier,  with  a  bitter  little 


46  WHITE    BIRCHES 

way  of  her  own ;  while  he — pshaw  !  he  was  no  emotional 
boy  to  be  the  slave  of  a  pretty  face — but  a  more  or  less  suc 
cessful  man  of  his  world.  He  flung  away  the  end  of  his 
cigarette  and  stood  up. 

"Are  we  going  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  You  may  go  to  the  bars  with  me,"  she  answered. 
"Then  you  may  come  back  and  do  your  writing." 

They  made  their  way  slowly  along  the  narrow  path,  she 
laughing  as  he  held  the  branches  back  for  her,  as  if  they 
had  not  touched — as  in  truth  they  barely  had — on  anything 
as  dangerous  as  reminiscences.  He  took  down  the  bars 
for  her ;  and,  when  she  had  passed  through,  they  stood  a  mo 
ment  on  either  side,  he  leaning  argumentatively  on  the  top 
rail,  and  she  playfully  forbidding  his  coming  farther.  They 
looked  across  the  field  to  the  house.  There,  on  the  piazza, 
they  saw  a  new  figure — a  man,  tall,  slight,  restless,  who  now 
tipped  his  chair  back,  now  rose  and  leaned  against  the  house 
as  he  spoke. 

Mrs.  Needham  paused  in  the  middle  of  her  sentence. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  he  answered.  "  That  settles 
it.  I  shall  come  with  you  and  find  out." 

"  No,"  she  said,  turning  to  him  and  laying  her  hand  a 
moment  near  his  on  the  upper  rail.  "  Don't  come  with  me 
— please.  I  know  who  it  is.  It's  Charlie  Needham ;"  .and 
picking  up  her  dress  she  walked  swiftly  towards  the  house. 
Davenant  stood  looking  after  her. 

"So!"  he  said  to  himself.  "She  wanted  me  to  think 
that  Needham  might  resent  seeing  us  together  of  a  summer 
morning  in  the  seclusion  of  a  forest  path  ? — in  view  of  past 
events.  Well,  perhaps  he  hasn't  changed  as  much  as  I 
have.  If  he  had,  he'd  envy  me  my  position  of  disinterested 
spectator." 

Then  he  made  his  way  back  to  his  retired  spot,  and  took 


WHITE    BIRCHES  47 

out  his  pen  again.  Before  he  began  his  review,  however, 
he  opened  his  note-book  and  wrote  as  follows  :  "  Summer 
morning — woods — woman  once  madly  loved — breath  of  the 
pines — white  clouds — suggestions  of  the  past — man  busy — 
wishes  she'd  go." 


CHAPTER   V 

"  He  may  not,  as  unvalued  persons  do,  carve  for  himself." 

"She  had 
A  heart— how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad. " 

"  WOULDN'T  you  have  said  you'd  go,  Uncle  Denver  ?" 
said  Rhodope  in  surprised  tones,  her  star-like  eyes  wide 
open,  her  brown  cheek  flushed  as  she  looked  at  him,  half 
in  question,  half  in  remonstrance.  Down  the  lane  from  the 
house  a  little  carefully,  on  account  of  round  stones  and 
high  heels,  was  disappearing  the  pleasing  figure  of  Florence 
Needham.  Denver  Trent  watched  her  to  the  high-road  be 
fore  he  answered. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  guess  as  likely  as  not  I'd 
V  said  I'd  go." 

"Well,  then,"  demanded  Rhodope. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  still  thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  have  said  I  wouldn't?"  she 
went  on  quickly. 

"  No,"  he  rejoined  quietly — "  no,  I  don't  think  you  ought 
to  have  said  you  wouldn't."  Rhodope  went  over  and  stood 
by  his  side  where  he  leaned  against  the  door-post  looking 
out. 

"  Uncle  Denver,"  she  said,  "  it  is  borne  in  upon  me  that 
you  don't  think  I'd  better  go.  I'll  run  after  Mrs.  Needham 
and  tell  her — only  " — and  with  a  girlish  petulance  unusual 
with  her,  added,  "  only  I  do  want  to  go  !"  Denver  Trent 
looked  down  at  his  beautiful  niece  and  his  keen  old  eyes 


WHITE   BIRCHES  49 

softened  with  the  fondness  that  was  never  far  off  from 
them. 

"Easy,"  he  said,  "easy  now!  There  ain't  any  call  for 
you  goin'  after  that  smoothly  runnin'  little  machine.  And 
there  ain't  any  call  for  you  stayin'  at  home  either.  Of 
course  you  can  go  on  this  picnic.  Anybody  that  likes  bet 
ter  to  eat  their  vittles  off  an  open  lot  stead  of  a  wooden  ta 
ble  never'll  be  held  back  by  me.  Of  course  you'll  go,"  he 
reiterated,  and,  to  dismiss  the  subject,  turned  into  the  house 
to  light  his  pipe.  But  Rhodope  was  not  yet  entirely  satis 
fied.  Her  whole  heart  was  glad  with  the  thought  of  the 
morrow's  pleasure.  What  might  it  not  be  to  go  with  all 
those  gay  people  to  spend  a  whole,  long  day !  She  knew 
the  place  well  enough — its  beauty  had  no  surprises  for  her — 
but  to  see  it  with  them,  in  an  atmosphere  so  different  from 
that  of  her  strolls,  alone  or  with  Jib — that  would  be  some 
thing  altogether  unexperienced.  Her  thought  of  the  day 
was  permeated  with  a  warm  glow  of  some  undefined  pleas 
ure,  some  satisfying  companionship  that  was  waiting  for 
her.  It  was  like  looking  to  the  top  of  one  of  her  unclimbed 
hills.  On  those  heights  of  shining  distance,  what  unex 
plored  delights  might  lie !  Yet  her  very  anticipations  made 
her  afraid.  This  vivid  rose  color  was  not  like  the  cool 
grays  of  her  daily  life,  and  there  was  something  in  Uncle 
Denver's  manner  that  made  her  hesitate.  As  she  stood 
where  he  had  left  her,  with  his  assurance  in  her  ears,  and 
his  doubt  in  her  heart,  Jib  came  up  the  lane  with  his  fish 
ing-basket  on  his  arm.  She  was  glad  to  see  him,  perhaps 
his  encouragement  would  be  without  reservation.  He  had 
been  off  since  morning,  and  as  she  helped  him  take  out  the 
fish  and  watched  him  put  up  his  rod,  she  asked  him  some 
questions  about  his  luck,  all  the  time  with  this  other  ques 
tion  near  her  lips,  but  withheld.  He  hadn't  had  his  usual 
luck,  he  admitted  in  a  rather  shamefaced  way,  with  a  side 
4 


50  WHITE   BIRCHES 

glance  at  his  uncle.  Hadn't  gone  far,  anyway.  Found  it 
pretty  hot.  Thought  he'd  get  enough  for  supper  and  come 
home.  There  was  a  suspicion  of  hurry  in  his  arrangements, 
and  signs  of  an  absence  of  mind  in  his  way  of  dropping  his 
possessions  about  the  room.  As  he  was  making  his  way 
out  of  the  door,  his  uncle  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
while  his  eyes  twinkled  quietly  as  he  asked, 

"  Been  reading  any  to-day,  Jib  ?" 

Jib  turned  back  and  laughed  a  little. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  ran  across  Tim  down  at  the 
Corners.  He  was  waitin'  for  the  up-train,  and  he  said  he 
had  just  the  book  for  me  to  go  fishin'  with.  He  said  I 
could  bet  my  life  it  was  pretty  lively  readin'.  So  I  got  it  of 
him,  and  I've  been  sort  of  lookin'  it  through,"  and  he  drew 
a  somewhat  rumpled  paper  copy  of  "  She  "  out  of  his  pock 
et  and  handed  it  to  his  uncle.  The  smallness  of  Jib's  bas 
ketful  was  explained  as  he  turned  the  leaves,  and  together 
they  discussed  the  unqualified  praise  which  the  newsboy  had 
lavished  upon  it. 

"Jib,"  said  Rhodope,  as  she  came  into  the  room  again, 
which  she  had  left  with  the  plate  of  trout,  "  I'm  invited  to 
go  on  a  picnic  with  the  folks  from  Clock's.  Would  you 
go  ?"  and  she  looked  wistfully  down  at  her  big,  good-look 
ing  brother,  who  was  considering  just  then  that  nightmare 
situation  of  the  hero  who  is  pulled  up  from  the  bottomless 
abyss,  as  portrayed  in  a  dizzying  frontispiece. 

"Picnic,"  he  repeated  vaguely.  No  wonder  it  seemed 
somewhat  tame.  •  . 

"  Yes,  a  picnic,"  repeated  Rhodope  patiently.  "  We're  to 
go  up  to  Shadow  Pond  and  stay  there  all  day.  Wouldn't 
you  go  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  Why,  yes,  I'd  go,"  said  Jib  readily. 

Rhodope  felt  disproportionately  glad  of  his  encourage 
ment. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  51 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  went  on  Jib  with  some  of  his  sister's 
wistfulness  in  his  eyes, "that  those  city  folks  do  anything 
particular  on  picnics.  They  won't  have  any  fighting,  or 
anything.  If  it  was  the  centre  of  Africa  now !"  and  with  a 
sigh  Jib  returned  to  a  consideration  of  the  grewsome  pleas 
antries  of  untamed  savage  enterprise  as  set  forth  in  the 
pages  of  "  She."  Rhodope  took  up  a  piece  of  work  and 
seated  herself  by  the  window  in  the  afternoon  sunlight.  In 
a  few  minutes  she  laid  it  down,  and  leaned  her  head  against 
the  pane,  looking  out.  They  did  not  either  of  them  under 
stand.  Uncle  Denver  thought  it  was  foolish  to  make  a 
time  about  doing  a  thing  she  had  done  often  enough  be 
fore — go  for  a  row  on  Shadow  Pond.  And  Jib — Jib  thought 
it  was  more  interesting  to  read  about  African  merry-mak 
ings  than  to  join  in  those  of  the  valley.  How  should  it 
mean  to  either  of  them  what  it  meant  to  her? — a  day  in 
another  world,  with  all  the  possibilities  and  alluring  impos 
sibilities  of  another  world.  Perhaps  Uncle  Denver,  who 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  smoking  his  pipe,  while  Jib 
had  sauntered  out  under  the  trees,  had  a  clearer  conception 
of  what  it  meant  than  she  thought.  He  had  seen  Rhodope, 
without  appearing  to  see  her,  when  Medcott  had  come  up 
with  Davenant,  to  make  a  call  of  acknowledgment,  as  soon 
as  he  was  able  to  get  about.  He  noticed  how  quietly  she 
sat  and  how  sweet  was  her  rare  smile  when  Medcott  spoke 
to  her,  and  how  long  she  stood  out  on  the  piazza,  after  they 
had  driven  out  of  sight.  He  saw  this,  and  Tom  Davenant 
had  seen  it  too.  He  liked  the  man,  though  Davenant,  with 
his  droll  speech  and  supernatural  gravity,  had  pleased  him 
more,  and  he  felt  there  could  be  no  reasonable  objection  to 
their  acquaintance  with  his  niece.  Denver  Trent's  position 
was  too  secure  for  him  to  trouble  his  sensible  head  about  so 
cial  distinctions.  Before  now,  brilliant  birds  of  passage  had 
passed  in  and  out  of  his  doorway,  and  their  migratory  pro- 


52  WHITE    BIRCHES 

pensities  had  left  life  there  quite  undisturbed.  But  there 
was  something  in  the  air  this  time  that  directed  his  watch 
ful  eyes  to  Rhodope's  face  more  than  once,  and  which  had 
almost  led  him  to  deny  her  the  proposed  drive.  But,  after 
all,  it  was  only  the  vague  uneasiness  of  deep  affection  and 
a  keen  perception  of  the  problems  and  conditions  of  life 
that  lent  anxiety  to  the  glance  which  rested  on  the  girl  as 
she  sat  with  her  head  against  the  window-pane  in  the  warm 
rays  of  the  declining  sun. 

"There  isn't  any  use  crossin'  bridges  before  you  get  to 
'em,"  he  said  to  himself  at  last,  "  and  Rhode  may  as  well 
find  out  one  time  as  another  that  to-day's  plenty  don't  mean 
to-morrow's  dinner,  and  that  it  takes  more'n  good  looks  and 
a  character  to  take  the  fancy  of  a  little  woman  like  that  one 
that  just  went  out  of  here.  If  I  was  to  tell  her  so  every 
day  it  wouldn't  be  worth  as  much  as  one  of  their  picnics — 
likely  as  not  that's  what  they're  for." 

It  was  after  tea  at  the  Clocks'  that  Mrs.  Needham  chose 
to  announce  the  result  of  her  afternoon's  expedition.  They 
were  all  sitting  about  on  the  piazza  as  usual.  Old  Israel 
Clock  had  been  milking,  and  was  carrying  the  brimming 
pails  into  the  side-door.  The  quiet  household  sounds  that 
somehow  betoken  that  work  is  nearly  over  for  the  day  were 
heard  about  them.  The  chill  that  follows  the  disappear 
ance  of  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  make  itself  felt.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Needham,  Medcott  Davenant,  and  Miss  Screed 
sat  in  a  little  group  by  themselves. 

"  Rhodope  Trent  is  going  with  us  to  Shadow  Pond  to 
morrow,"  said  Florence. 

"  Rhodope  Trent !"  exclaimed  Medcott.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Davenant  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  said  nothing.  He  had 
looked  upon  Mrs.  Needham's  proposal  to  ask  her  as  a  bit 
of  petulance,  and  supposed  she  had  forgotten  it  immediately. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  53 

"And  who  may  Rhodope  Trent  be?"  asked  Charlie 
Needham,  as  he  flicked  the  leaves  of  some  purple  asters 
with  his  cane. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  !"  murmured  Miss  Screed,  who  hadn't  the 
remotest  idea  whether  it  was  nice  or  not. 

"  I  mean,"  answered  Florence,  looking  at  Medcott,  and 
ignoring  her  husband  and  Miss  Screed  alike,  "  that  I  went 
up  there  to-day  and  asked  her  to  go,  and  she  was  only  too 
glad — really,  if  I  may  not  be  considered  as  reflecting  upon 
her  statuesque  " — she  paused  to  accent  the  word — "  immo 
bility,  I  should  say  she  jumped  at  the  chance." 

"  Fancy  !"  drawled  Davenant ;  "  with  what  a  nice  fly  Mrs. 
Needham  must  have  baited  the  hook  which  is  afterwards 
to  make  things  so  unpleasant  for  the  victim !" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  what  you  mean  by  making  things 
unpleasant !"  Florence  said  crossly.  That  was  a  nasty  way 
Tom  Davenant  had  of  going  to  the  root  of  the  matter  !  He 
looked  blandly  forth,  and  answered,  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean  to 
make  it  unpleasant  for  her,  you  know.  I  was  only  follow 
ing  out  your  simile — jumped  at  it — bait — hook — unpleas 
antness  !"  and  his  voice  fell  into  hesitating  silence. 

"  And  who  may  Rhodope  Trent  be  ?"  repeated  Needham. 

"  You'll  know  to-morrow,  my  dear  boy,  probably  to  your 
sorrow,"  answered  his  wife.  "  She  is  the  village  beauty 
whom  Mr.  Medcott,  assisted  by  Mr.  Davenant,  longs  to 
draw  from  her  obscuring  retirement,  and  I  am  offering 
my  humble  aid  and  getting  snubbed  for  it." 

"  I'm  very  glad  she  is  going,"  said  Miss  Screed,  honestly. 
Mrs.  Needham  had  not  paid  any  attention  to  Edwina  Screed 
since  they  met.  She  was  a  quiet  girl,  with  ineffectual  feat 
ures,  well  bred,  not  in  the  least  assertive,  and  childishly 
artistic.  Florence  had  decided  she  would  not  repay  culti 
vation,  so  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  make  any  reply,  but 
listened  for  what  Medcott  would  say. 


54  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I  think  it  was  an  unfair  thing  to  do,"  he  broke  out. 
"  She'll  be  thoroughly  uncomfortable.  What  does  she  know 
about  a  picnic  ?  She  probably  thinks  we  all  go  from  a 
genuine  love  of  nature  !"  Mrs.  Needham's  ringing  laughter 
followed  his  speech. 

"  How  he  resents  his  goddess  being  brought  down  to  the 
haunts  of  men  !"  she  cried.  "  She  is  no  associate  for  the 
likes  of  Miss  Screed  and  me  !" 

This,  together  with  a  covert  kick  from  Davenant,  cooled 
Medcott's  unwise  remonstrances. 

"Will  she  wear  the  beaded  jersey?"  asked  Davenant, 
with  kindly  interest.  "  I'm  afraid  you  forgot  to  speak  about 
that.  I  long  to  have  Needham  see  her  with  all  the  adven 
titious  aids  of  effective  costume." 

"  I'm  not  finding  fault  with  you,  Mrs.  Needham,  you  un 
derstand,"  said  Medcott  in  his  usual  tone.  "  It  was  nice  of 
you  to  ask  her." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  Davenant,  with  a  heartiness  that  made 
Florence  long  to  push  him  over  the  railing  on  which  he  was 
balancing  himself,  "  it  was  indeed." 

"  But  it  is  hard  on  my  deliverer  to  put  her  in  competition 
with  the  rest  of  you  accomplished  women.  My  natural 
gratitude  leads  me  to  deplore  the  circumstance." 

Mrs.  Needham  was  entirely  satisfied.  She  had  paved 
the  way  for  Medcott  to  be  ashamed  of  his  enthusiasm  for 
a  country  girl,  and  at  the  same  time  had  led  him  into  an  ill- 
timed  effort  at  protection.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Dave- 
nanfs  comments  she  would  have  felt  that  she  had  been  as 
skilful  as  she  had  been  successful.  As  it  was,  she  looked  for 
ward  to  the  happy  consummation  of  her  plans  on  the  morrow. 

"  Well,"  said  Davenant,  as  he  sat  smoking  with  Medcott 
later  in  the  evening,  "I've  heard  of  men  walking  into  traps  be 
fore,  but  I've  seldom  witnessed  the  spectacle  of  a  man  charg 
ing  for  one  like  a  bull  of  Bashan,  as  you  did  this  evening. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  55 

Mrs.  Needham  got  just  what  she  wanted  in  the  way  of 
seeing  your  sensitive  anxiety." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Medcott  with  some  penitence.  "  I  be 
haved  like  an  idiot." 

"  I  should  say  you  did,"  with  which  frank  reflection  Dave- 
nant  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  "  What  the 
mischief  is  it  to  you,  anyway,"  he  began  again  with  slow 
inquiry,  "  whether  that  girl  has  a  good  or  bad  time  on  that 
picnic  to-morrow — as  she's  foolhardy  enough  to  go  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it's  not  an  altogether  unheard-of  piece  of 
chivalry  for  a  man  to  dislike  seeing  a  beautiful  woman 
made  uncomfortable,  particularly  when  she  pulled  him  out 
of  an  awkward  hole  three  weeks  ago,"  replied  Medcott 
gloomily. 

"  No,"  and  Davenant  tipped  back  his  chair  in  greater 
insecurity  and  deeper  comfort,  "  but  there's  no  use  in 
goading  Florence  Needham  into  sticking  pins  into  her,  with 
your  chivalrous  emotions.  She  has  a  large  number  of  pins 
about  her  person,  warranted  every  point  of  'em." 

"  I  don't  care,"  broke  in  Medcott  with  sudden  ardor. 
"I'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  being  troubled  about  her! 
"  J'm  ashamed  of  myself  for  trying  to  shield  her  !  But  I'm 
more  than  all  ashamed  of  myself  for  temporizing  as  I  did  a 
while  ago,  and  trying  to  laugh  at  my  own  enthusiasm  ! 
Good  heavens !"  and  Medcott's  chair  came  down  sharply 
on  four  legs,  "isn't  that  girl  above  any  defence  of  mine  and 
above  any  of  the  pin-pricks  of  an  envious  woman?  and 
oughtn't  I  to  be  proud  of  knowing  that  she  is  and  saying 
so  ?  I've  no  right  to  insult  her  with  my  protection,  but  at 
least  I  needn't  conceal  my  admiration !" 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  commented  Davenant  quietly, 
"  very  proper  indeed.  But  there  was  a  man  once  gifted 
with  somewhat  remarkable  powers  of  practical  observation, 
who  advises  his  readers  to  answer  a  fool  according  to  his 


56  WHITE    BIRCHES 

folly.  You  think  this  over  and  look  at  it  on  all  sides 
as  you're  apt  to  do,  and  you  may  come  round  to  Solomon 
and  me." 

Ignorant  of  all  the  comment  that  the  prospect  of  her 
presence  had  provoked,  Rhodope  stood,  the  next  morning, 
waiting  for  the  buckboard.  Her  attire,  though  neither 
waterproof  nor  beaded  jersey,  was  a  different  affair  from 
the  trim  and  picturesque  walking-dresses  of  the  party  she 
was  to  join,  but  was  not  destitute  of  the  attractiveness 
which  always  belongs  to  what  is  entirely  appropriate.  She 
knew  what  walking  in  the  woods  meant,  and  she  had  never 
in  her  life  aspired  to  the  city  styles,  an  aspiration  which 
leads  some  women  into  the  unmitigated  errors  which  Mrs. 
Needham  had  hoped  to  see  exemplified  in  her  person ;  there 
fore  there  was  a  fitness  in  her  appearance  which  pleased 
the  eyes  of  at  least  two  occupants  of  the  long  buckboard 
as  it  drew  up  at  the  roadside  where  she  waited. 

As  she  saw  them  approach  a  rush  of  shyness  over 
powered  her.  For  the  first  time  she  realized  what  she  was 
doing — going  away  from  her  own  associations  into  a  circle 
where  she  would  be  a  stranger  as  thoroughly  as  if  she 
spoke  another  tongue !  But  as  the  high,  clear  treble  of 
Mrs.  Needham  greeted  her,  and  the  sound  of  laughter 
reached  her  with  the  suggestions  of  lightheartedness  that 
seem  wafted  from  such  a  party,  no  matter  what  individual 
annoyances  make  it  up,  she  looked  into  the  eyes,  not  of 
Mrs.  Needham,  but  of  Austin  Medcott,  who  was  driving, 
and  with  a  swift  thrill  which  said  that  the  sunny  day  and 
the  vague  delicious  anticipations  were  not  in  vain,  she  lost 
her  sense  of  strangeness  with  all  fear  of  what  it  might 
mean.  In  an  instant  Davenant  was  on  the  ground  to  help 
her  in,  and  Medcott  was  moving  baskets  and  wraps  to 
make  room  for  her. 


WHITE   BIRCHES  57 

"  On  the  middle  seat,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Needham  from 
her  position  by  Medcott's  side,  and  Rhoclope  climbed  in 
and  took  her  place  by  Miss  Screed,  surrounded  with  this 
atmosphere  of  attention,  welcomed  by  smiles,  feeling  as  if 
she  were  en  route  for  pleasures  beside  which  the  imagination 
of  Jib's  favorite  authors  might  indeed  falter. 

The  arrangement  of  the  buckboard  was  a  triumph  of 
Florence's  diplomacy.  This  day  was  to  be  at  once  a  bitter 
lesson  to  the  girl  whose  head  she  assumed  to  be  turned  by 
the  visible  effect  of  her  beauty,  and  to  the  two  men  who  had 
dared  so  openly  to  express  their  admiration.  With  this  end 
in  view  she  had  placed  herself  in  front  with  Medcott,  where 
he  would  find  it  impossible  to  talk  connectedly  with  anyone 
else,  and  where  he  might  nevertheless  be  the  helpless  ob 
server  of  all  the  awkwardness  and  ignorance  of  this  country 
beauty.  Behind  them,  with  Rhodope,  was  Miss  Screed,  a 
nonentity  whose  very  want  of  character  would  make  her  a 
helpless  follower  of  her  lead,  while  Rhodope  should  be  wit 
ness  of  her  own  intimacy  with  the  man  who  was  undoubt 
edly  deified  in  her  rustic  imagination.  In  the  back  seat 
were  Davenant  and  a  Mrs.  Rois,  who,  without  Mrs.  Need- 
ham's  beauty,  or  her  sparkle  which  passed  for  wit,  was 
quite  capable  of  monopolizing  the  attention  of  any  man 
whom  chance  threw  in  her  way,  and  who,  to  do  her  justice, 
had  seldom  time  or  inclination  for  the  furtherance  of 
schemes  outside  this  attractive  monopoly.  It  was  an  ar 
rangement  evincing  considerable  strategic  skill,  and  ought 
to  have  been  successful,  and  for  a  time  it  was.  In  Med 
cott's  breast  wrath  might  burn  and  sear,  but  the  capacity 
of  looking  at  a  question  from  all  sides,  to  which  Davenant 
had  appealed,  assured  him  that  the  wisest  thing  he  could 
do  was  to  fall  in  with  the  arrangements.  Davenant,  from 
the  back  seat,  might  twist  his  solemn  mouth  into  its  most 
cynical  expression,  as  in  three  distinct  lines  of  thought  he 


58  WHITE    BIRCHES 

listened  to  Mrs.  Rois,  admired  Rhodope's  profile,  and  con 
demned  Mrs.  Needham's  sagacity,  but  he,  too,  acquiesced. 
They  had  a  good  pair  of  horses,  and  the  buckboard  kept 
the  lead  gayly,  for  there  were  two  or  three  carriage-loads 
behind  them,  and  for  a  short  while,  with  the  swift  motion, 
the  exhilarating  air,  the  laughing  company,  Rhodope  felt 
no  diminution  of  her  pleasure. 

"  I'm  so  glad  we  are  keeping  ahead,"  laughed  Florence. 
"  Don't  spare  the  horses,  Mr.  Medcott ;  Charlie  is  in  the 
last  cart  but  one.  Please  pretend  that  you  are  running 
away  with  me." 

"  With  these  unsympathizing  companions  behind  us  ?" 
asked  Medcott,  hearing  with  Rhodope's  ears  as  well  as  his 
own. 

"  Oh,  we  won't  think  about  anything  but  the  enraged  hus 
band,"  rejoined  Florence.  "  Look  behind,  Laura,  please, 
and  tell  me  if  his  suspicions  are  aroused,"  and  she  glanced 
back,  taking  in  Rhodope  with  the  downward  sweep  of  her 
eyelids.  If  she  was  trying  to  shock  her,  she  failed  to  elicit 
striking  testimony  to  her  success.  Rhodope  was  looking 
at  her  with  a  perplexed  smile,  and,  still  smiling,  her  look 
passed  on  to  Medcott,  as  if  to  ask  him  for  the  key  to  this 
conversation.  But  his  eyes  and  attention  were  naturally  on 
his  horses. 

"  The  enraged  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Rois,  "  is  at  present 
lighting  a  cigarette  in  the  inside  of  his  hat,  and  his  feat 
ures,  doubtless  contracted  in  a  spasm  of  jealousy,  are 
therefore  hidden.  I  have  told  you  four  times,  Mr.  Dave- 
nant,  that  it  is  not  customary  to  put  your  umbrella  into 
the  basket  that  holds  the  butter,  and  you  have  prodded  it 
harder  each  time." 

The  conversation  flew  back  and  forth  over  Rhodope's  head, 
varied  by  allusions  to  people  and  things  of  whom  she  knew 
nothing,  a  thread  so  elusive  that  she  could  not  grasp  it — 


WHITE    BIRCHES  59 

"Just  as  she  seemed  about  to  learn, 
Off  again — the  old  trick." 

All  the  time,  right  before  her  eyes,  Florence  Needham's 
piquant,  fair  face  upturned  to  the  handsome  man  beside 
her,  who  was  obliged  to  bend  low  now  and  then  to  catch 
the  words  which  she  interpolated  in  low  tones,  when  the 
conversation  was  supposed  to  be  general.  Once  or  twice 
Medcott  turned  squarely  about  and  addressed  Rhodope 
directly.  Then,  unconscious  of  Florence  Needham's  hard 
scrutiny,  the  color  came  to  her  face  and  that  shy  confidence 
to  her  eyes  which  half  intoxicated  him  with  its  sweetness. 
But  Florence  saw  it  too,  and,  with  an  added  bitterness,  she 
barbed  the  arrows  of  subtle  irritation.  Now  and  then  she 
addressed  words  enough  to  Rhodope  to  save  her  from  the 
charge  of  the  most  undisguised  ill-breeding;  but  for  the  first 
hour,  save  for  an  occasional  question  from  Mrs.  Rois,  who 
was  really  not  ill-natured,  but  only  occupied,  a  straightfor 
ward  remark  from  Davenant,  who  carefully  refrained  from 
fanning  the  flame  of  Mrs.  Needham's  resentment,  and 
rather  timid  little  conversational  offerings  from  Edwina 
Screed,  Rhodope  sat  almost  in  silence.  Certainly  Florence 
Needham  had  reason  to  congratulate  herself.  The  sunlight 
was  as  joyous,  the  deep  green  of  the  hills  as  satisfying,  but 
strange,  perplexing  discomforts  had  taken  hold  of  Rhod- 
ope's  heartstrings  and  crept  into  her  eyes.  Something 
had  gone  ;  the  warmth,  the  kindliness  that  had  seemed  to 
envelope  her  like  a  protecting  garment,  had  vanished  some 
how,  and  left  her  only  an  unnoticed  observer  of  the  happi 
ness  of  others. 

Not  in  the  least  morbid  or  inclined  to  fancy  herself  neg 
lected,  Rhodope,  if  she  had  led  a  somewhat  colorless  life, 
had  found  it  the  freer  from  disappointment,  and  there  was 
something  she  could  not  understand  in  this  sudden  dying 
out  of  the  intensity  which  had  seemed  to  glow  through  all 


60  WHITE    BIRCHES 

her  thoughts  of  this  happy  day.  With  sudden  homesick 
ness  she  thought  of  Uncle  Denver  and  Jib  up  in  the  dear, 
quiet,  old  house,  while  she  was  here  with  these  strange, 
gay  people,  and  her  lip  trembled.  It  was  then  that  a 
strange  thing  happened.  It  was  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Needham 
never  could  have  anticipated.  It  was  a  thing  that  Mrs. 
Rois  observed  with  good-natured  approval,  and  that  was 
noticed  with  large,  present  encomiums  and  much  future 
acknowledgment  by  the  two  men.  It  was  a  thing  strange 
in  itself,  but  not  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  certain 
kindly  but  uninteresting  people.  It  was  this.  Miss  Screed 
rose  to  the  occasion.  No  one  could  tell  precisely  how  it 
occurred.  Miss  Screed  herself  said  that  she  only  asked 
Miss  Trent  the  name  of  a  wayside  flower.  Mrs.  Needham 
was  heard  to  declare  the  next  day  that  it  was  only  a  part  of 
Miss  Screed's  everlasting  artistic  pose.  Medcott  thought 
that  it  was  her  innate  kindness  of  heart  and  good  manners. 
Davenant  secretly  expressed  his  conviction  that  it  was  but 
another  instance  of  the  weak  things  of  the  earth  being  chosen 
to  confound  the  mighty.  Be  this  as  it  may,  in  a  few  min 
utes  Rhodope  and  Miss  Screed  were  talking  like  two  girls 
of  the  same  associations  and  the  same  interests.  Rhodope's 
eyes  were  bright,  and  her  low  voice  was  ready  with  replies. 
Underneath  Miss  Screed's  ignorance  of  perspective  lay  a 
genuine  love  of  Nature,  and  she  was  unaffectedly  delighted 
with  Rhodope's  knowledge  of  woodcraft  and  general  ac 
quaintance  with  hills  and  streams.  Rhodope,  doubly  sen 
sitive  to  friendliness  that  was  not  within  the  strange  shadow 
that  had  fallen  across  that  of  these  other  people,  responded 
heartily,  and  found  positive  pleasure  in  the  acquaintance. 
Still,  underlying  this  new  pleasure  was  a  new,  dim  sense  of 
distrust  and  pain.  Was  there  a  disappointment  in  store 
for  her  here,  too  ? 

Nevertheless,  when  they  left  their  carriages  for  the  climb 


WHITE    BIRCHES  6 1 

up  to  the  lake,  and  again  there  was  a  going  hither  and 
thither,  and  a  bright  commotion,  though  Rhodope  might 
have  experienced  defeat,  thanks  to  Miss  Screed  it  had  not 
been  an  utter  rout. 

Here  Medcott  asserted  himself  as  he  had  not  been  able 
to  do  before. 

"Miss  Trent,"  said  he,  coming  to  her  side,  "will  you 
show  me  the  way  up  ?" 

She  assented  gladly,  and  felt,  as  they  climbed  together 
the  steep  path,  that  the  day  had  but  begun,  and  much  might 
yet  be  in  store — what,  she  never  asked  herself.  But  a  doubt 
had  shadowed  its  brightness ;  she  had  felt  the  chill  of  the 
winds  that  blow  on  the  clearest  hill-tops,  and  it  would  never 
be  quite  the  same  day  again. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  An  honest  method,  wholesome  as  sweet." 

' '  Invite  the  sunbeam 

And  abhor  to  feign  or  seem — 

— go  in  thine  own  likeness." 

"  SHE  gave  her  a  nasty  one  now  and  then,  I  must  admit," 
said  Davenant  thoughtfully,  as  he  pushed  himself  back 
more  comfortably  into  the  fragrant  haycock  and  dug  his 
heels  into  the  ground  more  thoroughly  to  secure  his  posi 
tion.  Medcott  lay  on  the  ground  face  downward,  leaning 
on  his  elbows  and  looking  now  off  into  the  distance,  now 
at  Davenant,  and  chewing  conscientiously  the  end  of  a  long 
wisp  of  hay. 

"And  the  peculiarly  trying  point  of  the  situation,"  went 
on  Davenant,  "  was  that  the  poor  girl  never  knew  what  hit 
her." 

"It  was  a  confounded  shame!"  said  Medcott  hotly; 
"having  asked  her  to  go  on  the  thing,  she  might  at  least 
have  let  her  alone." 

"  That  wasn't  what  she  asked  her  to  go  on  the  thing  for," 
returned  Davenant  sapiently. 

"  She  came  out  of  it  well." 

"Yes,  she  did.  If  Florence  Needham  had  been  in  her 
place  she  would  have  cried  and  gone  home.  But  Miss 
Trent  was  grandly  unconscious  to  the  end.  That  is  where 
that  sort  of  woman  scores.  She  is  too  ignorant  to  cut  herself 
through  laying  about  her  with  her  adversary's  weapons." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  63 

"  And  every  time  I  tried  to  make  her  more  comfortable  I 
let  her  in  for  more  of  it,"  declared  Medcott  with  angry  pen 
itence. 

"  To  carry  my  simile  over  into  fire-arms,"  stated  Tom,  as 
one  pleased  with  his  own  argument,  "  when  a  man  takes  a 
hand  in  women's  warfare,  the  recoil  of  his  weapon  gener 
ally  knocks  him  over  and  insures  his  missing  fire." 

"  I'm  tired  of  your  theories." 

"  I've  noticed  that  more  than  once  lately,"  admitted  Dave- 
nant,  with  entire  evenness.  "  It's  a  bad  sign.  It  shows 
that  you  are  given  over  to  personalities." 

After  which  he  smoked  in  silence  a  moment,  and  Medcott 
contemplated  the  horizon  and  began  on  another  piece  of 
hay,  which  he  selected  with  care. 

"  Now  there's  Miss  Screed—" 

"Is  she  coming?" 

"  No,  she  isn't  yet.  I  spoke  figuratively.  There's  Miss 
Screed,  I  would  say.  You  don't  feel  called  upon  to  grind 
your  teeth  over  the  fact  that  she  is  not  entirely  happy  on  a 
picnic." 

"  No." 

"Well,  then,  I  say—" 

"  Oh,  bother  your  comparisons  !"  exclaimed  Medcott  im 
patiently,  which,  considering  that  he  had  given  him  no  time 
to  make  any,  was  both  rude  and  illogical.  Davenant  looked 
at  him  quietly  through  his  half-shut  eyes,  as  he  leaned  back 
in  the  hay  and  inhaled  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette.  "  You 
can  generally  be  trusted  to  make  your  own  comparisons,  I 
know,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  I'd  like  to  paint  her,"  said  Medcott,  with  apparent  irrel 
evance,  a  moment  later. 

"  Who  ?"  drawled  Davenant,  "  Miss  Screed  ?" 

"Rhodope  Trent,"  returned  Medcott  defiantly. 

"  To  be  sure,  Rhodope  Trent.     I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you." 


64  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I'm  not  a  figure-painter,  or  I  would,"  asserted  Medcott 
with  unnecessary  perverseness. 

"That's  what  I  meant,"  agreed  Davenant  with  perfect 
amiability.  "You're  not  a  figure-painter." 

"  I  could  put  her  into  a  landscape,  though.  Leaning  on 
a  stile,  or  coming  down  one  of  these  forest  paths — or  stand 
ing  with  her  hand  on  a  white  birch-tree." 

"  Or  why  not  try  her  in  another  setting  ?"  suggested  Dav 
enant  in  his  hesitating  way.  "  In  a  city  room,  with  a  tea- 
table  and  —  and  a  ginger-jar  —  or  under  a  chandelier  at  a 
ball,  or  looking  into  a  shop-window — those  are  the  things 
that  please  the  populace." 

"  Hang  the  populace  !"  was  the  impolitic  rejoinder,  in  the 
spirit,  if  not  the  letter,  of  a  great  man. 

"  By  all  means,"  assented  Davenant.  "  Here  comes  Miss 
Screed." 

Medcott  sprang  to  his  feet  and  hastened  to  meet  her. 
She  came  uncertainly  across  the  field,  along  the  path  Rhod- 
ope  had  trodden  with  such  free,  swinging  grace.  She  car 
ried  her  sketching-stool,  umbrella,  and  portfolio,  and  as  she 
snatched  a  fearful  joy  from  the  prospect  of  the  morning's 
occupation,  and  was  consequently  somewhat  agitated,  she 
held  them  in  an  irresolute  fashion,  which  caused  her  to  sur 
render  them  to  Medcott's  care  with  real  gratitude.  It  was 
in  the  current  of  grateful  feeling  produced  by  her  cordiality 
to  Rhodope  that  Medcott  had  offered  to  take  her  sketching, 
in  order,  as  he  modestly  put  it,  that  he  could  offer  a  few  sug 
gestions  that  she  might  find  useful.  The  idea  of  enjoying 
the  advantages  of  a  morning's  work  with  an  artist  of  Med 
cott's  standing  made  her  apprehensive  that  she  might  not 
profit  by  them  to  the  expected  degree.  He  longed  to 
assure  her  that  his  anticipations  of  results  were  most  mod 
erate. 

For  half  an  hour  longer  Davenant  lay  in  the  fragrant  field 


WHITE   BIRCHES  65 

enjoying  the  warm  scents  and  sounds  of  the  late  summer, 
and  reviewing  his  conversation  with  Austin.  It  had  been 
no  idle  suggestion  of  his,  this  fancied  transporting  of  Rhod- 
ope  Trent  to  another  atmosphere  than  that  in  which  she 
had  been  until  now.  He  saw  that  Medcott's  imagination, 
possibly  something  deeper,  was  strongly  affected  by  this 
beautiful  girl.  But  he  knew  also  that,  together  with  the  sus 
ceptibility  of  his  temperament,  Austin  possessed  to  an  un 
usual  degree  that  faculty,  to  which  he  had  already  appealed, 
of  looking  at  a  thing  upon  all  its  sides.  His  hint  was  in 
tended  to  call  this  faculty  into  action  before  his  emotions 
had  led  him  any  further.  Austin  Medcott  sometimes  passed 
for  vacillating,  and  to  a  certain  point  perhaps  he  was,  but, 
after  all,  this  was  not  a  fair  criticism.  As  is  more  often  the 
case  than  is  generally  admitted,  his  artistic  temperament, 
emotional,  intense,  susceptible,  was  united  to  that  judgment 
which  sees,  feels,  and  recognizes  from  many  standpoints  be 
sides  its  own.  When  once  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  he 
was  fearless  and  direct  of  purpose,  but  so  nrany  factors  went 
to  his  conclusions,  so  wide  an  appreciation  of  disadvantages 
as  well  as  advantages,  that  he  seemed  to  swing  from  one 
side  to  the  other  without  due  balance.  It  had  been  so  with 
his  choice  of  a  profession.  He  had  always  loved  painting, 
and  cultivated  his  talent  for  it,  but  when  it  came  to  the  time 
that  he  must  make  a  choice  that  should  be  for  life,  he  felt 
so  clearly  the  many  things  in  the  way  of  such  a  career — the 
discouragements,  the  shortcomings,  the  inevitable  disap 
pointments — that  he  hesitated.  He  must  be  sure  that  he 
had  the  power  that  alone  makes  the  path  of  art  unmistaka 
ble,  before  he  would  enter  it,  and  this  question  was  not  to 
be  decided  in  a  hurry.  It  was  a  calm,  temperate  conviction 
that  overcame  this  hesitation,  rather  than  the  legacy  of  an 
uncle  to  which  public  opinion  assigned  the  cause  of  his  tak 
ing  up  definitely  this  congenial  work.  The  decision  once 
5 


66  WHITE    BIRCHES 

made,  however,  there  had  been  no  further  delay.  He  had 
studied  in  this  country  and  in  Paris ;  everything  else  had 
been  subordinated  to  his  profession ;  though  with  the  breadth 
which  ought  to  belong  to  a  true  artist,  he  had  led  no  narrow, 
one-ideaed  life,  but  had  seen,  heard,  and  enjoyed  beyond 
the  limits  of  his  special  aptitude.  It  was  this  man  whom 
Davenant  knew  well  when  he  brought  forward  the  picture 
of  Rhodope  in  another  world  and  under  other  conditions, 
in  order  to  check  possibilities  which  might  be  disastrous  in 
their  consequences. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Davenant  began  to  find  the 
sun  uncomfortably  warm,  and,  picking  himself  up,  he  lazily 
brushed  off  the  clinging  wisps  of  hay  from  his  coat.  Then 
he  stood  undecidedly  a  moment,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
looking  about  him.  Coming  to  a  decision,  he  pushed  his  soft 
felt  hat  back  from  his  forehead,  and  walked  slowly  across 
the  field  in  the  direction  opposite  that  of  the  Clock  domicile. 

On  the  Clock  piazza  sat  Mrs.  Needham,  Mrs.  Rois,  and 
two  or  three  of  the  other  boarders. 

"  I  use  the  heavier  gold  thread,"  had  said  a  few  moments 
before  a  small,  sharp-featured  woman,  who  abounded  in  em 
broidery  designs. 

"  Does  it  really  wash  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Rois. 

"  Oh,  some  of  it  does,"  she  replied  with  the  unreliability 
of  an  advertisement. 

"  I  had  rather  do  cut-work  than  anything  else,"  said  Flor 
ence,  looking  off  and  seeing  that  Davenant  was  still  lying 
where  she  had  seen  Medcott  leave  him. 

"  It  takes  forever,"  objected  Mrs.  Rois. 

"  Leila  White  does  the  most  exquisite  cut-work,"  said  the 
first  speaker. 

"Doesn't  she?"  exclaimed  Florence  effusively.  "You 
mean  the  Leila  White  who  was  such  a  belle  last  winter  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  her  very  well  ?" 


WHITE   BIRCHES  67 

"  So  do  I,"  Florence  hastened  to  add.  "  I  met  her  first 
at  luncheon  at  the  Adells' — a  small  luncheon." 

For  a  moment  she  forgot  her  interest  in  the  distant  hay 
mow.  The  small,  dark  needle-woman  said,  "  Oh,  did  you  ?" 
and  was  silent  for  a  moment.  The  shot  had  told,  she  had 
never  been  to  luncheon  at  the  Adells'. 

When  Florence  looked  again,  Davenant  had  risen  and  was 
looking  undecided.  In  her  anxiety  to  have  him  come  back 
to  the  house  she  laid  down  her  work.  A  large,  placid  wom 
an  in  the  corner,  with  the  surprising  quickness  of  large  wom 
en,  noticed  the  movement  and  followed  her  glance. 

"  How  our  young  gentlemen  do  scatter  in  the  morning," 
she  observed,  as  Tom  walked  off  across  the  field.  With  a 
flush  of  vexation  Florence  took  up  her  scissors. 

"  The  village  has  attractions  that  we  cannot  hope  to  ri 
val,"  she  said  with  a  hard  laugh. 

Florence  was  not  altogether  contented  this  morning. 
Even  her  undoubted  success  of  the  day  before  was  not 
quite  satisfying.  She  bitterly  resented  the  part  that  Miss 
Screed  had  taken,  but  circumstances  forbade  her  to  declare 
it.  Her  irritation  against  Davenant  was  increasing,  though 
she  did  not  believe  in  his  indifference ;  she  was  sure  that  some 
of  the  old  emotion  would  yet  awaken.  This  irritation  circum 
stances  also  prevented  her  from  evincing.  Each  hour 
brought  new  evidences  of  the  social  advantages  that  lay  in 
Davenant's  hands.  She  plied  him  with  questions  which 
bored  him  greatly,  but  which  he  could  not  refuse  to  answer, 
and  she  felt  that  no  larger  piece  of  luck  could  have  be 
fallen  her  than  this  accidental  renewing  of  an  intimacy 
which  years  had  threatened  to  annihilate.  Whatever  hap 
pened  she  should  not  quarrel  with  Tom  Davenant,  but 
peace  had  begun  to  be  difficult.  Together  with  these 
sources  of  annoyance  was  the  feeling  that  she  had  for 
Medcott.  Florence  Needham  was  as  incapable  of  startling 


68  WHITE   BIRCHES 

imprudence  for  the  sake  of  love  as  for  any  other  indec 
orous  cause ;  but  whether  it  was  Medcott's  fortnight  of  de 
pendence,  or  his  preceding  most  transitory  and  conven 
tional  tenderness,  or  his  good  looks,  or  his  general  air  of 
prestige,  it  is  certain  that  he  had  for  her  a  deeper  interest 
than  any  of  the  observers — certainly  than  Austin  himself — 
would  have  believed  possible.  It  was  something  that  had 
gone  beyond  wounded  vanity,  that  made  her  jealous  of 
Rhodope.  It  was  with  something  deeper  than  the  insati 
able  desire  of  conquest  that  she  longed  to  command  Med 
cott's  devotion.  And  all  these  emotions  that  she  could 
not  reveal,  the  expression  of  which  was  forbidden  her  by 
feeling  and  prudence  alike,  concentrated  her  hostility  to 
Rhodope  Trent.  She  needed  an  object  for  her  irritation 
to  expend  itself  upon,  and  she  found  it  in  this  girl  whose 
beauty  had  called  forth  the  homage  of  these  two  men  which 
she  wished  in  vain  for  herself.  It  made  her  clever  in  de 
vising  ways  of  annoyance ;  but  as  the  penalty  of  ill-temper 
it  rendered  her  not  blind  to,  but  heedless  of,  the  unfortu 
nate  effect  it  produced  upon  both  Medcott  and  Davenant. 
She  did  not  mean,  however,  to  abandon  her  attentions  to 
Rhodope. 

Davenant  left  the  fields  behind  him,  struck  the  road,  and 
sauntered  down  towards  the  post-office.  On  the  steps 
leading  to  that  fount  of  perennial  interest  sat  several  na 
tives  of  the  valley  whose  occupations  were  of  that  desul 
tory  nature  that  admits  of  certain  intervals  to  devote  to  the 
amenities  of  social  intercourse.  Two  of  them  edged  an  ap 
preciable  distance  in  opposite  directions  in  a  manner  heed 
less  of  contact  with  the  rough  and  dirty  boards,  and  Dave 
nant  passed  between  them  to  drop  his  letters  in  the  box. 
Inside  he  delayed  a  few  moments  to  purchase  some  stamps, 
and  conversation  which  had  been  somewhat  at  a  standstill 
for  want  of  material  was  resumed  with  a  new  impetus. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  69 

"  Lazy  sort  of  chap,"  commented  some  one. 

"Bet  you  spruce  gum  he  ain't  as  lazy  as  he  looks,"  re 
marked  an  older  man  with  the  courage  of  his  convictions. 

"  Well,  I  guess  he  can  stand  bein'  spryed  up  a  little  by 
this  here  air,"  hazarded  the  first  speaker. 

"  Wai,  I  d'know  but  what  he  can,"  admitted  the  second. 

The  silence  of  assent  ensued,  and  Davenant  came  out  of 
the  post-office. 

"There  comes  Denver  Trent,"  said  a  tall,  slack  youth 
who  stood  about  with  that  aimlessness  of  demeanor  observ 
able  in  villages  wanting  in  business  activity.  Just  then 
the  United  States  mail,  in  charge  of  a  small  boy  and  drawn 
by  a  horse  whose  daily  trips  of  two  miles  to  and  fro  from 
the  station  were  an  exhausting  drain  upon  its  resources,  ar 
rived  at  the  door.  Davenant  waited  to  see  if  there  was 
anything  for  him,  and  so  met  Denver  Trent  as  he  walked 
up,  his  stiff  leg  imparting  almost  a  seafaring  roll  to  his  pro 
gression. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  new-comer  with  a  smile  as  he  rec 
ognized  Davenant.  Denver  Trent's  smile  was  something 
out  of  the  common.  It  was  so  sweet  and  childlike  that  it 
made  his  rugged  face  a  most  attractive  object;  men, 
women,  and  children  felt  its  charm,  and  it  was  a  trait  which 
had  manifested  itself  in  another  generation.  Jib  and 
Rhodope  both  had  it,  but  with  them  it  was  less  a  surprise 
than  a  part  of  their  youth  and  beauty. 

"Well,  Mr.  Trent,"  replied  Davenant,  "you  are  just  in 
time  for  the  mail,  sir." 

"  Mornin',  Denver,"  remarked  one  and  another  of  the 
bystanders. 

"  Mornin',"  he  replied.  "  Seems  to  be  a  good  deal  doin' 
to-day."  Davenant  was  inclined  to  suspect  a  satirical  im 
plication,  but  as  he  saw  that  the  circle  about  the  door  was 
rapidly  enlarging,  and  met  Denver  Trent's  honest  gaze,  he 


70  WHITE    BIRCHES 

felt  that  it  was  only  the  result  of  intelligent  observation. 
The  periphery  of  the  circle  was  composed  of  the  transient 
population  of  the  village,  to  whom  calling  for  the  mail  was 
rather  a  social  episode  than  a  daily  incident,  and  their 
light,  quick  speech  and  laughter  seemed  like  the  demon- 
strativeness  of  foreigners,  by  the  side  of  the  slow,  rare 
words  of  the  nucleus  of  the  group.  As  soon  as  the  window 
was  opened  this  periphery  closed  in  and  called  for  its  mail 
with  varying  expressions  of  pleasure  and  disappointment, 
while  the  nucleus  waited  until  such  time  as  it  could  claim 
the  postmaster's  undivided  attention. 

"  You  see,  they've  only  got  all  the  time  the'  is,"  said 
Denver  Trent  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  two 
laughing  girls  hurried  by  with  the  exclamation  "  I  knew 
he'd  send  it  to-day !"  "  and  then  it's  with  them  the  respon 
sibility  of  the  mail  mostly  lies.  There  isn't  much  of  any 
mail  when  they  ain't  here.  We  know  that,  and  so  we  sort 
of  stand  by  and  give  them  first  chance." 

"I  see,"  said  Davenant  smiling.  "They  can  have  my 
chance.  I'd  be  obliged  to  them  if  they'd  take  my  letters, 
too." 

In  a  few  moments  the  two  men  were  walking  together  up 
the  road.  They  had  contracted  a  mutual  liking,  based 
largely  upon  taciturnity,  and  were  quite  at  ease  in  each 
other's  presence. 

"  Might  walk  up  along  with  me,"  Denver  had  suggested, 
"  Jib's  fishin'  again  to-day.  Might  come  up  and  see  if  he's 
had  any  luck." 

"  I'd  like  to,"  said  Davenant  heartily.  They  both  rec 
ognized  this  as  a  mere  pretext  for  further  intercourse. 

"Well,  now,  I'm  sort  o'  surprised  that  you've  got  time," 
said  the  older  man  after  they  had  walked  a  few  rods. 
"  Most  of  you  young  fellers  who  come  up  here  hardly  have 
time  to  turn  round,  what  with  walkin'  and  drivin'  and 


WHITE    BIRCHES  Jl 

climbin' — seems  as  if  they  thought  the  whole  valley'd  get 
away,  'less  they  sort  of  run  it  over." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Davenant,  "I  assure  you  on  my  word 
of  honor  I  have  time  to  make  a  perfect  teetotum  of  myself 
if  I  feel  inclined.  I  wouldn't  detain  the  valley  a  minute 
beyond  its  appointed  time  either.  It's  likely  to  stay  here  as 
long  as  I  do,  and  meanwhile  I  intend  to  enjoy  myself." 

Denver  Trent  laughed  softly.  He  liked  Davenant's 
drawling  laziness. 

"  I  guess,"  said  he  a  few  moments  later,  "  that  you're  a 
pretty  sensible  sort  of  feller." 

"  I  guess  I  am,"  said  Davenant  with  entire  gravity.  "  I 
guess  that's  exactly  what  I  am." 

When  they  reached  the  wide,  open  door  of  the  little,  old 
house,  they  found  no  one  within. 

"They  ain't  back  yet,"  said  Denver;  "I  guess  Rhode's 
gone  too." 

"  Is  your  niece  a  fisherwoman  ?"  asked  Davenant.  He 
was  disappointed  not  to  see  Rhodope. 

"  Considerable  of  one,"  replied  her  uncle.  "  I'll  tell 
you,  they're  only  just  down  at  the  foot  of  that  next  lot 
You  see  where  them  rocks  are?  You  just  foller  them 
around  and  you  come  out  right  over  the  brook,  and  I  guess 
they  ain't  far  up  it.  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  go  see,  while  I 
set  here  and  read  the  paper.  Then  you  can  come  along 
with  'em  and  have  some  of  the  fish  for  dinner." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Davenant;  "I  don't  be 
lieve  " — then,  as  he  looked  at  the  old  man,  he  saw  that  he 
really  wanted  him  to  accept  his  careless  invitation,  and  he 
altered  the  close  of  his  sentence — "I  don't  believe  it'll 
make  any  difference  to  the  Clocks,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to,  indeed." 

Denver  Trent  watched  him  as  he  strolled  along  in  the 
direction  pointed  out  to  him. 


72  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  He's  the  kind  of  man  I'd  like  to  have  for  company," 
he  meditated.  "I'm  surer  of  that  than  I  would  be  of  the 
one  that's  got  the  good  looks  of  the  concern." 

It  was  a  rough  and  overgrown  path  that  Davenant  was 
following,  and  it  led  him  through  an  amount  of  underbrush 
that  made  him  reflect  in  mournful  Phrygian  strain  upon  the 
future  state  of  his  white  flannel  trousers.  At  last  he  came 
to  a  break  in  the  foliage,  and,  walking  to  the  edge  of  the  as 
cending  bank,  he  looked  over.  There,  some  distance  be 
low  him,  was  a  pretty  sylvan  scene,  and  he  studied  it  with 
appreciation.  The  brook,  clear  and  narrow,  babbled  of 
green  fields,  as  it  ran  on  under  overhanging  branches  and 
over  smooth  stones.  The  noon  sun  made  warmth  but  not 
glare  in  the  deep  shade.  Jib's  line  was  in  the  water,  and 
Rhodope,  her  lips  a. little  apart,  leaning  forward,  sat  by  his 
side,  watching  with  absorbed  interest  the  floating  thread. 
Beyond  them  both,  almost  hidden  in  the  thick  grass  and 
shrubs,  lay  a  third  person,  his  eyes  also  fixed  in  suspense 
upon  Jib.  This  third  person  lacked  the  beauty  of  the  other 
two,  and  introduced  an  element  of  worldliness  into  the  rus 
ticity  of  the  group.  One  felt  instinctively  that,  though  he 
might  mingle  freely  in  the  sport  of  the  hour,  it  was  with  a 
certain  condescension,  as  of  one  to  whom  busier  scenes  and 
more  exciting  contests  were  familiar.  He  was  a  small, 
slight  youth,  with  an  expression  of  not  unhappily  blended 
astuteness  and  good-nature,  and  was  a  stranger  to  Dave 
nant.  It  was  Tim,  the  train  newsboy,  taking  a  day  off.  As 
Davenant  looked  down  at  them  it  was  like  a  well  -  set 
tableau — the  immobility  of  the  figures,  the  intent  expres 
sions,  the  quietness  of  the  little  glade. 

"  There  !"  exclaimed  Rhodope,  and  the  spell  was  broken. 
The  curtain  was  down,  and  Davenant  was  behind  the 
scenes.  With  a  quick  motion  Jib  landed  a  fair-sized  trout, 
and  Tim  crawled  along  to  inspect  it. 


WHITE   BIRCHES  73 

"  Well,"  said  Jib,  laying  aside  his  fishing-tackle,  "  I  said 
I'd  only  wait  to  catch  one  more.  We  may  as  well  talk 
awhile." 

"Gorry!"  exclaimed  Tim,  "I'm  tireder  holding  my 
tongue  than  you  are  hauling  in  those  fish !" 

"Yes,"  said  Rhodope,  glancing  up  at  the  sky,  "we 
needn't  go  home  quite  yet — we  may  as  well  talk." 

"But,"  said  a  slow,  drawling  voice  from  the  distance 
above  their  heads,  "  I'm  afraid  I  can't  hear  all  you  say." 
They  started  and  looked  up,  and  Rhodope's  surprised  gaze 
brightened  as  she  saw  Davenant,  though  even  with  her 
smile  of  recognition  went  an  eager  glance  behind  him,  as 
if  there  might  be  some  one  else.  Davenant  saw  it  and 
knew  what  it  meant.  Jib  and  Tim  looked  at  each  other 
and  laughed  in  some  embarrassment  without  replying,  after 
the  manner  of  boys  confronted  with  social  problems,  but 
Rhodope  said, 

"  The  path  is  farther  on.     I  guess  you'll  see  it." 

"  He's  one  of  the  dudes  from  Clock's,  ain't  he  ?"  asked 
Tim  in  a  stage-whisper  as  Davenant  went  on  to  find  his 
way  down.  Tim  was  often  noticeably  inelegant  in  speech. 

"  He  isn't  a  dude  at  all,"  said  Rhodope  with  decision. 
"  If  he  talks  with  us  you  will  like  to  hear  him,"  which,  for 
one  whose  ideas  were  somewhat  hazy  on  the  peculiarities 
of  the  species  referred  to,  was  not  demonstrating  her  point 
badly.  The  boys  were  both  accustomed  to  accept  Rhod 
ope's  judgment  as  infallible  upon  all  subjects  not  immedi 
ately  connected  with  either  sport  or  literature,  so  Davenant 
found  a  far  from  hostile  circle  open  to  admit  him. 

For  an  hour  the  four  sat  on  the  border  of  the  babbling 
brook  and  talked,  Davenant  keenly  enjoying  the  unconven 
tional  natures  and  their  differences.  The  boys  at  first  had 
been  constrained,  but  Tom  possessed  in  a  high  degree  that 
enviable  faculty  of  meeting  people  on  their  own  ground 


74  WHITE   BIRCHES 

without  patronage,  difficulty,  or  affectation,  and  there  soon 
existed  that  hearing  and  speaking  eagerness  which  is  the 
touchstone  of  profitable  conversation.  Most  of  all  he 
watched  Rhodope,  and  found  her  a  different  person  from 
the  Rhodope  of  the  drive.  The  consciousness  that  she  felt 
in  Medcott's  presence  was  gone,  as  was  also  the  perplexed 
shyness  produced  by  unwonted  ways  and  surroundings. 

Here,  in  her  own  woods,  with  all  the  dear  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  forest  and  the  hills  about  her,  her  two  de 
voted  admirers  by  her  side,  and  Davenant,  with  whom 
from  the  first  she  had  felt  at  ease,  seeming  for  the  moment 
her  own  familiar  friend,  the  full  charm  of  her  freedom,  her 
quaintness,  and  her  simplicity,  as  well  as  that  of  her  great 
beauty,  was  manifest.  She  had  a  positive  delight  in  the 
growing,  moving  things  about  them.  The  birds  and  the 
insects  acquired  the  attributes  of  persons  beneath  her  com 
ment.  An  oriole  flashed  by  them  and  perched  upon  a  not 
distant  branch. 

"See,"  said  Rhodope,  "he  has  a  June-bug  which  does 
not  want  to  be  eaten.  Watch  him  deal  with  it." 

"Not  an  unnatural  frame  of  mind,  I  suppose,"  com 
mented  Davenant;  "few  of  us  would  care  to  be  inter 
cepted  for  that  purpose." 

"And  that  June -bug  never  thought  that  it  would  be 
eaten,"  asserted  Rhodope  gravely.  "  It  was  so  safe  inside 
its  hard  little  shell !  But  it  is  just  those  things  that  go 
boom,  splash,  right  into  danger — remember  that,  Tim !" 
She  smiled  at  the  boy,  as  one  who  knows  admonitions  are 
wasted,  and  therefore  harmless. 

The  oriole  put  its  head  on  one  side  and  knocked  the 
recalcitrant  bug  hard  on  the  branch  of  the  tree. 

"  I'll  bet  on  the  fire-hanger !"  remarked  Tim. 

"  Poor  little  stupid  June-bug  !"  exclaimed  Rhodope  ;  "  it 
is  having  its  brains  knocked  out." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  75 

"  It  has  no  brains,"  consoled  Davenant ;  "  hard-shelled 
things  never  have — wisdom  is  sensitive." 

"  No,  it's  only  that  ignorance  doesn't  know  what  hurts 
it." 

Davenant  glanced  at  her  with  quick  interrogation.  Was 
she  thinking  of  what  had  made  the  substance  of  his  and 
Medcott's  talk  that  morning?  Evidently  not.  She  was 
smiling  still,  as  she  watched  the  bird  with  a  pretty  intent- 
ness.  The  oriole  flicked  the  branch  with  the  now  quiescent 
bug  more  decidedly,  and  then  nodded  its  head  with  a  funny 
little  air  of  triumph,  combined  with  a  final  setting  aside  of 
all  opposition  on  the  part  of  his  victim— a  nod  of  negation 
and  of  exultation. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  sighed  Rhodope.  "Why  is  it  we  are  not 
more  sorry  ?"  she  demanded,  turning  to  Davenant. 

"  Well,  something  will  happen  to  the  bird,"  he  answered, 
trying  to  rise  to  the  philosophic  level  of  the  occasion,  "  and 
we'd  have  to  be  sorry  for  that — and  we  can't  go  on  being 
sorry  forever." 

"  Do  you  suppose  there  are  people  like  that  ?"  she  said 
softly — "  people  that  are  sorry  forever  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  he  answered  seriously. 

Tim  was  bored  by  these  reflections. 

"Aunt  Matilda  ain't,"  he  observed.  "I  don't  believe 
Aunt  Matilda  was  ever,  so  to  say,  sorry  in  her  life." 

The  seriousness  vanished  from  Rhodope's  eyes. 

"  Not  when  you  made  the  sawdust  pie  and  sent  it  in  her 
name  to  the  sewing  society  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  declared  Tim,  "she  wasn't  anything  but  just  siz 
zling  mad  then." 

"  Aunt  Matilda  ?"  repeated  Davenant. 

"Matilda  Spore,"  said  Tim  promptly;  "that's  my  name, 
too — Timothy  Spore.  Don't  you  know  Miss  Matilda  Spore, 
in  the  village  ?"  he  asked  curiously. 


7&  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"Miss  Matilda  Spore,"  repeated  Davenant  slowly — "I 
can't  say  I  have  that  pleasure.  I  haven't  been  here  long, 
you  know." 

"  It  don't  take  more'n  a  minute  to  know  her  real  well !" 
exclaimed  Tim,  with  the  appreciation  of  peculiar  traits  one 
finds  within  the  immediate  family  circle.  "  She's  my  aunt — 
maiden  aunt — and  I  tell  you,  she's  a  hummer,  ain't  she, 
Jib  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  guess  she  is— considerable  of  one,"  as 
sented  Jib,  with  an  evident  disposition  to  be  just. 

"  She  can  find  more  fault  inside  of  five  minutes  than  the 
best  floor-walker  ever  was  made.  She's  the  only  relation 
I've  got,  and  I'm  the  only  one  she's  got ;  so  all  the  fault 
she'd  find  with  a  large  family,  if  she  had  one,  she  has  to 
find  with  me.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  lose  a  minute." 

Davenant  might  have  found  this  free  analysis  of  charac 
ter  embarrassing,  if  the  calm  assent  of  Jib  and  Rhodope 
had  not  made  it  clear  that  it  was  merely  the  statement  of 
accepted  facts,  rather  than  the  indulgence  of  private  feeling. 

"  A  most  entertaining  old  lady,  I've  no  doubt,"  he  ob 
served. 

"  Bet  your  life  !"  affirmed  Tim  ;  "  she'd  entertain  a  graven 
image — and  find  fault  with  it  for  not  answering  back." 

The  alleged  performance  of  this  somewhat  remarkable 
feat  passed  without  question,  in  itself  no  mean  tribute  to 
Matilda  Spore. 

"  She  is  fond  of  you,  Tim,"  said  Rhodope. 

"  I  guess  she  is !"  Tim's  conversation  was  distinctly 
ejaculatory.  "  What  'd  she  do  without  me,  I'd  like  to  know. 
I  tell  you  I'm  all  the  family  she's  got  to  find  fault  with ! 
She  just  treasures  me  like  the  apple  of  her  eye,  and  she'd 
better." 

There  was  an  entire  absence  of  resentment  in  Tim's  en 
largements  upon  this  theme  which  was  attractive. 


WHITE   BIRCHES  77 

"  Perhaps  she  would  have  been  fonder  still,"  went  on 
Rhodope,  gently,  "if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  jumping- jack." 

"  The  jumping-jack  wasn't  anything !     'Twas  the  toad." 

"I  should  not  pick  out  a  jumping-jack  and  a  toad  as 
natural  cementers  of  affection  without  further  evidence," 
remarked  Davenant. 

"A  jumping-jack  at  the  Church  Sewing  Society!  Oh, 
Tim,  it  was  bad  of  you !"  Rhodope's  eyes  were  glistening 
with  a  child's  enjoyment  of  mischief,  while  she  reproved 
him. 

"I  tell  you,  'twasn't  the  jumping-jack — 'twas  the  toad. 
When  they  cut  the  sawdust  pie,  they  touched  the  spring 
and  it  hopped."  The  cynical  malevolence  of  Tim's  smile 
was  irresistible.  "  They  fell  over  chairs,  they  were  so  scart 
— and  they  thought  'twas  Aunt  Matilda  put  up  the  job  on 
'em.  I  traded  two  good  books  and  one  without  a  cover  for 
that  wooden  toad,"  he  observed  with  the  not  unsatisfactory 
reminiscence  of  a  railroad  magnate  referring  to  an  advan 
tageous  deal. 

"  'Twas  awful  good  crust,"  observed  Jib  ;  "Miss  Matilda 
needn't  have  minded  that  part." 

"Yes,  'twas  good  crust,"  assented  Tim. 

"  The  crust  of  lots  of  things  is  good,"  remarked  Dave 
nant  oracularly, "  the  insides  of  which  are  'hollow — hollow — 
hollow  !'  I  am  sure  Aunt  Matilda,  from  what  I  hear  of  her, 
is  too  clever  a  woman  to  have  been  surprised  by  that." 

"  Rhodope  made  it,"  remarked  Tim. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Davenant,  turning  upon  her  in  ex 
aggerated  but  actual  amazement. 

"  Oh,  Tim,  I  did  not !"  she  exclaimed  indignantly,  but 
looking  like  the  discovered  culprit  she  felt  herself  to  be. 
Tim  winked  at  Jib — further  than  this  there  was  no  com 
ment. 

"  But,"  began  Rhodope  again,  after  a  moment's  timid  si- 


78  WHITE   BIRCHES 

lence,  "I  knew  Belinda  was  making  it" — desperately — 
"  and  I  knew  what  it  was  for  !" 

Davenant  laughed  one  of  his  rare  laughs,  and  Rhodope 
joined  him. 

"  In  spite  of  her  seriousness,"  thought  Tom,  "  Miss  Rhod 
ope  has  not  outgrown  her  girlhood  yet." 

"  Got  any  new  books,  Tim,"  inquired  Jib,  as  he  lay  on  his 
back,  looking  up  into  the  sky. 

"Well,  no,  I  haven't,  Jib,"  replied  Tim,  candidly,  "not 
any  that  you  and  me'd  care  about.  There's  a  few  of  just 
the  reg'lar  thing — girls  and  fellers — you  know,  sittin'  round 
and  talkin'  and  mixin'  things  up  that  any  fool  could 
straighten  out,  and  gettin'  thin  over  it — you  know  the  sort 
— I  don't  read  'em  myself." 

Jib  made  an  indistinct  sound  of  assent  and  indifference. 
Davenant  was  immensely  pleased  with  this  open-air  crit 
icism,  and  Tim's  position  of  intelligent  reviewer. 

"  Now,  I  tell  you,  that  last  one  I  brought  you  was  a  fine 
one,  wasn't  it  ?"  demanded  Tim. 

"  Fine,"  answered  Jib  with  cordiality. 

"  '  She '  was  a  dandy,  wasn't  she  ?" 

"Yes,  she  was." 

"  I  bet  that  '  She '  'd  have  gotten  the  upside  of  Aunt 
Matilda,"  and  Tim  breathed  a  sigh  over  the  short-comings 
of  the  actual  female  character  as  compared  with  the  ideal 
ities  of  "  She." 

"I  like  the  'Vicar  of  Wakefield',"  said  Rhodope. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Rhode,"  Tim  spoke  with  patronizing  impa 
tience,  "  you've  got  the  queerest  ideas  about  books.  Pick- 
in'  out  that  humdrum  old  story.  Why,  I  ain't  sold  a  copy 
of  that  on  the  cars,  I  don't  know  when — I  don't  know  as  I 
ever  did." 

"  Well,  now,  Tim,"  said  Davenant,  in  moderate  defence, 
"  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield '  isn't  so  bad." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  79 

Tim  looked  at  him  a  moment  doubtfully. 

Davenant's  previous  conversation  inclined  him  to  con 
sider  favorably  what  he  might  say. 

"  No,  it  ain't  so  bad,  perhaps,"  he  admitted.  "  But  there 
ain't  much  to  it.  I  wouldn't  have  read  it  if  Rhode  hadn't 
made  me." 

"What  are  you  doing,  Jib?"  asked  Rhodope  suddenly. 

Whatever  his  employment,  Jib  had  been  completely  ab 
sorbed  by  it  for  some  minutes,  as  he  lay  on  the  grass  in  his 
favorite  attitude. 

"  Do  you  see  that  beetle  ?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  little 
spotted  lady-bird.  "  He's  trying  to  get  to  the  top  of  that 
blade  of  grass ;  he's  fallen  back  half  a  dozen  times  besides 
the  times  I  poked  him  down." 

Rhodope's  eyes  flashed  indignation. 

"  You  shall  not  poke  him !"  she  exclaimed,  going  swiftly 
to  his  side,  where  she  knelt  on  the  ground.  Davenant  ap 
plied  himself  to  looking  at  the  beetle  too. 

"  This  has  been  for  me,"  he  remarked,  "  a  morning  of 
most  unusual  attention  to  the  habits  of  the  animal  king 
dom." 

Laboriously  the  tiny  thing  made  its  way  up  the  blade  of 
grass,  which  swayed  and  bent  under  its  weight.  More  and 
more  slowly  it  crawled  as  it  neared  the  top.  Down  it 
slipped  twice,  though  Rhodope  held  Jib's  hand  so  that  he 
could  not  touch  it.  They  watched  it  breathlessly. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  fair  to  poke  it  up  ?"  asked  Davenant  in 
a  whisper  as  it  fell  the  second  time,  and  they  all  laughed. 

"What  will  the  blamed  thing  do  when  it  gets  there?" 
speculated  Tim  with  that  contempt  for  inadequacy  which 
was  born  in  him. 

"  Wait  and  see,"  said  Rhodope. 

The  third  time,  by  hard  endeavor  and  delicate  balancing, 
it  crawled  on  and  on  till  its  little  body  clung  fast  to  the 


8o  WHITE    BIRCHES 

very  tip  of  the  green,  slender,  trembling  stalk.  There  it 
paused  in  the  perplexity  of  achievement,  and  then  —  it 
opened  its  wings  and  flew  away. 

"  Smart,  wasn't  it  ?"  jeered  Tim. 

Rhodope  looked  up  at  Davenant.  "And  it  had  wings 
all  the  time,"  she  said,  half  sadly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  things  might  be  easier  if  we  knew  !" 

She  was  grateful  to  him  for  his  quick  comprehension. 
She  was  yet  to  learn  how  distinguishing  was  this  compre 
hension  of  his. 

"  It  will  seem  so  easy  when  we  get  to  the  top,"  she 
sighed.  "  Come,  it  is  noon,"  she  added,  "  we  must  go." 

Jib  picked  up  his  tackle,  Tim  took  his  hat  off  a  neighbor 
ing  bush,  and  Davenant  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord." 

' '  What  man  would  read  and  read  the  selfsame  faces, 
And,  like  the  marbles  which  the  windmill  grinds, 
Rub  smooth  forever  with  the  same  smooth  minds, 
This  year  retracing  last  year's,  every  year's  dull  traces, 
When  there  are  woods  and  un-man-stifled  places  ?" 

A  TALL,  dark  woman  of  between  forty  and  fifty  stood  at 
the  door  of  a  tent,  looking  off  towards  the  west,  where  be 
yond  the  smoky  haze  of  a  manufacturing  town  loomed 
faint  shapes,  suspected,  rather  than  visible,  in  the  light  of 
a  late  moon,  shapes  which  meant  the  neighborhood  of  moun 
tains.  A  flaring  torch  stuck  in  the  ground  near  her  side 
threw  its  fitful  light  over  her  striking  features,  which  to 
night  bore  a  shade  of  wistfulness  somewhat  at  variance 
with  the  general  aspect  of  her  good-natured  mouth,  bright 
eyes,  and  brilliant  costume.  The  tent  stood  on  a  slight 
eminence,  and  just  in  front  of  her  was  a  wide,  open  space 
filled  with  an  indiscriminate  litter,  in  the  midst  of  which 
rapidly  moving  figures  were  taking  down,  with  shouted  words 
of  direction,  a  mammoth  tent,  that  made  the  one  by  which 
she  stood  look  a  very  pocket-affair.  Here^  and  there  were 
other  flaring  torches  throwing  their  fantastic  light  on  the 
ground  with  its  scattered  peanut-shells,  dirty  sawdust,  torn 
papers,  trodden  and  dusty  spots,  and  on  the  faces  of  the 
men,  tired,  laughing,  spiritless,  and  scowling.  On  the  bor 
ders  of  the  field,  unreached  by  a  hurrying,  pushing  crowd 
that  had  but  lately  left  it  to  this  semi-desolation,  stood  the 
6 


2  WHITE    BIRCHES 

starry  asters  and  plumy  golden-rod,  waving  in  the  night 
breeze,  bathing  in  the  pale  light  of  the  moon,  as  heedless 
and  natural  as  if  this  atmosphere,  permeated  by  kerosene 
oil  and  roasted  peanuts,  had  not  made  its  way  to  their  very 
roots ;  and  beyond  them,  away  from  this  noise,  this  commo 
tion,  and  this  splutter,  was  silence,  reaching,  it  seemed,  to 
the  very  hills  themselves.  Perhaps  the  contrast  struck  the 
woman  as  she  stood  idly  in  the  tent-opening,  for  she  scarce 
ly  noticed  the  disappearance  of  the  huge  spread  of  canvas, 
and  the  progress  of  the  packing  and  stowing  that  went  on 
about  her,  though  usually  she  was  ready  enough  to  order 
and  advise.  Not  that  she  was  specially  susceptible  to  the 
incongruities  of  the  scene  ;  it  was  much  of  it  too  accustomed 
a  one  for  that.  Even  the  sudden  appearance  of  a  painted 
harlequin  figure  in  white  and  red,  close  at  her  elbow,  as  it 
crossed  a  lighted  space  under  one  of  the  lamps  and  disap 
peared  in  the  shadows  beyond,  did  not  startle  her  with  its 
suggestions  of  sad-hearted  mockery.  To  her  it  was  no  pos 
sible  frequenter  of  a  Walpurgis  Night  of  revelry ;  it  was  only 
Bob  Stein  who  hadn't  yet  had  time  to  change  his  clothes. 
But,  nevertheless,  more  clearly  with  her  mental  than  her 
physical  vision,  she  saw  that  line  of  high  hills  on  the  near 
horizon,  still,  calm,  and  watchful,  and  above  the  shouts  of 
the  men  and  the  falling  of  poles  and  the  rattling  of  metal, 
she  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  sound  as  of  the  purling  of  in 
numerable  streams,  and,  shutting  her  eyes,  the  kerosene- 
weighted  atmosphere  grew  heavy  and  stifling,  for  she  almost 
caught  the  woodland  fragrance  of  sweet-fern,  pine,  and  elder. 
Suddenly  she  started  from  her  half-dream  and  smiled.  Into 
the  midst  of  this  grim,  smoky  artificiality  there  broke  a  harsh, 
discordant  sound,  which  seemed  for  a  moment  to  banish  all 
the  puny,  human  discordance  with  its  pitiless  ferocity,  a 
sound  which  no  amount  of  gaudy  show  and  commonplace 
trappings  can  make  anything  but  a  natural  sound — the  howl 


WHITE    BIRCHES  83 

of  a  wild  beast.  The  woman  smiled — it  was  as  if  for  a  mo 
ment  she  felt  the  freedom  that  it  recalled. 

A  man's  figure  approached  her,  stopped,  and  turned  back, 
while  he  shouted  a  word  or  two,  and  then  came  on.  The 
work  was  almost  done.  The  torches  were  flickering  them 
selves  into  oblivion,  the  moon  was  regaining  her  legitimate 
pre-eminence,  silvering,  with  generous  largess,  even  the  dirty 
sawdust,  and  the  voices  had  grown  quiet. 

"Well,  Nick,"  said  the  woman  in  a  pleasant  voice,  as  the 
man  paused  in  front  of  her.  He  was  a  strong,  not  ill-look 
ing  fellow,  with  a  certain  shrewdness  tempering  the  other 
wise  somewhat  expressionless  good -humor  of  his  blunt 
features. 

"  Pretty  good  receipts  for  a  small  town  like  that  yonder," 
and  she  indicated  the  direction  of  the  smoky  cloud. 

"  Pretty  good,"  he  assented. 

She  felt  a  note  of  dissatisfaction  in  his  voice,  for  she 
asked,  "  Nothing  gone  wrong,  is  there?" 

"  Nothing  much,"  he  answered,  his  hands  still  in  his 
pockets,  and  a  look  of  somewhat  apprehensive  perplexity  on 
his  face,  which  his  wife  saw  and  could  not  account  for.  But 
she  waited,  feeling  sure  that  she  should  know  its  cause  be 
fore  long. 

"  It's  this,  Marcella,"  he  went  on  in  a  moment — "  Geor- 
giana  says  she  won't  ride  in  the  procession  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  Georgiana  had  better  not  be  giving  herself  airs !" 
exclaimed  Marcella,  who  was  a  stickler  for  discipline. 

"  You  see,  she  did  turn  her  ankle  a  bit,  and  she  says  it 
tires  her  to  stand  up  in  one  of  those  dratted  go-carts — those 
being  the  words  she  used — and  she  isn't  going  to  do  it  if 
she's  expected  to  go  on  in  the  evening.  Now,  you  know 
we've  got  to  drive  Georgiana  with  kind  of  a  loose  rein," 
and  Nicholas  looked  up  into  his  wife's  face,  sure  of  being 
understood. 


84  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  she  answered  slowly ;  "  she's  the 
only  rider  we've  got  that  the  public  cares  anything  about. 
Why  not  drop  her  out  of  the  procession  entirely  ?" 

"  That's  just  what  we  can't  afford  to  do,"  replied  Nicho 
las  decidedly.  "  We  haven't  got  any  great  shakes  of  a  pro 
cession  anyway.  It  isn't  as  if  it  was  the  whole  regular 
show,"  he  went  on  as  apologetically  as  if  his  wife  had 
been  the  public  to  whom  he  appealed.  "  But,  you  see,  we 
wanted  to  do  it  cheap  up  here  in  the  country,  and  I've 
dropped  a  feature  here  and  a  feature  there,  till  there  ain't 
much  left." 

It  was  evident  that  Marcella  did  not  take  this  lamentable 
picture  of  her  husband's  condition  literally,  for  she  did  not 
look  at  him  to  mark  the  hinted-at  devastation. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  assented  thoughtfully. 

"We  haven't  but  a  few  wild  beasts,  and  a  regular  job-lot 
of  camels,"  went  on  Nicholas  pessimistically,  "  and  it's  the 
floats  and  the  Roman  chariots  that  fetches  'em  generally, 
anyhow,  and  we're  mighty  short  of  them.  We  can't  drop  a 
blamed  chariot,"  he  declared  again. 

"Well,  then,  let  somebody  else  drive  it,"  suggested  Mar 
cella. 

"  There  it  is  !  There  isn't  anybody  to  do  it !  There 
isn't  a  man  or  woman  about  the  place  that  hasn't  more  than 
they  can  do.  I've  had  to  take  Rip  out  of  the  panther's 
cage  and  put  him  in  as  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  as  it  is,  be 
cause  we  can't  get  along  without  her  and  Diany  the  Hunt 
ress,  and  when  you've  said  Diany  and  the  Goddess  you've 
said  it  all,"  asserted  Nicholas  gloomily. 

"  Then  I  don't  see  what  we'll  do — unless  you  want  me 
to  drive  the  Roman  chariot,"  and  Marcella  laughed  an  in 
fectious,  gurgling  laugh.  "  I  ain't  much  more  afraid  of  those 
ponies  than  I  am  of  the  lion  and  the  panther  put  both  of 
'em  together." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  85 

Nicholas  laughed  absent-mindedly,  while  the  apprehen 
sion  deepened  on  his  face. 

"  No,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  drive 
it,  but  I  don't  see  why  Elizabeth  " — then  he  paused. 

"  Elizabeth  !"  exclaimed  his  wife.  She  had  slipped  out 
of  the  tent-door  and  walked  a  few  steps  with  him,  so  that 
they  should  not  be  overheard  ;  and  as  she  spoke  she  glanced 
back  over  her  shoulder  as  if  in  fear  that  their  voices  should 
reach  to  the  dim  interior.  "  Elizabeth !"  she  repeated. 
"  Why,  Nicholas  French  !  And  you  promised  me,  promised 
me  over  and  over,  that  our  girl  should  never  have  the  first 
thing  to  do  with  the  show  !  Are  you  forgetting  every 
thing?"  and  she  faced  him  angrily.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
would  say  more  if  only  her  surprise  had  not  clogged  her 
tongue. 

"  There,  there,"  said  the  man  soothingly,  "  I  promised, 
and  I'll  stand  by  my  word,  and  I  don't  want  Elizabeth  a 
circus  girl  any  more  than  you  do.  And  she  sha'n't  go  a 
step  unless  you  say  she  may." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  interjected  Marcella. 

"  But  one  swallow  doesn't  make  a  summer,  after  all.  And 
it's  only  for  this  once,"  he  went  on  coaxingly.  "  And  think 
how  pretty  she'd  look  in  Georgian a's  train  and  handling 
those  ribbons.  She  ain't  afraid  of  anything  that  walks." 

"  No,  she  ain't,"  admitted  her  mother,  her  swift  indigna 
tion  beginning  already  to  evaporate.  "  But — " 

"  Bless  the  woman's  heart !"  went  on  Nicholas.  "  Does 
she  think  I  want  my  little  Liz  to  do  anything  that's  going 
to  hurt  her  any  way  at  all  ?  If  it  was  a  city  we  were  going 
to,  now,  I  should  say  right  off,  '  No,  sir,  she  won't  ride 
through  all  those  streets  with  people  staring  at  her  !'  But 
up  here  in  this  little  town,  why,  it'll  be  an  amusement  for 
her." 

He  paused  to  let  this  argument  have  all  its  weight,  but 


86  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Marcella  still  shook  her  head.  "  It's  a  different  thing,  that's 
what  it  is.  And  who's  going  to  know  who  she  is,  and  if 
she  helps  her  old  father  out,  who's  going  to  say  as  she 
oughtn't  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  her  mixed  up  with  the  circus,"  repeated 
Marcella  decidedly. 

"  No  more  do  I,"  said  Nicholas,  honestly.  "  But  once 
ain't  mixin'  up.  And  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  went  on  in 
a  lower  tone,  "  if  Georgiana  once  sees  Elizabeth  dressed  up 
and  looking  forty  times  prettier  than  she  ever  could,  there 
won't  be  any  more  shirkin'  processions." 

Marcella  smiled  and  nodded.  She  knew  the  force  of 
this,  and  it  appealed  to  her  mother's  vanity  besides. 

"  And  such  a  little  quiet  country  town  as  we're  going  to 
next — it  isn't  anything  but  a  parcel  of  boys  and  girls  and  a 
few  farmers  and  their  wives  that'll  see  her  anyway." 

"  You're  sure  you  can't  drop  it  out  altogether,"  said 
Marcella  doubtfully. 

"  Certain  sure." 

Marcella  knew  that  her  husband  was  as  unwilling  as  her 
self  to  have  their  daughter  become  a  part  of  the  circus 
performances,  though  he  was  less  sensitive  to  details,  and 
she  began  to  yield.  How  pretty  the  girl  would  look  in  the 
gaudy,  golden  equipage,  and  how  she  would  enjoy  the  ex 
citement  !  and,  after  all,  it  was  only  just  for  the  drive. 

"  Where  is  it  we're  going  next  ?"  she  asked. 

"  To  North  Lanes." 

North  Lanes  !  It  was  the  very  town  she  had  been  think 
ing  of.  She  had  not  realized  they  were  quite  so  near. 
The  folks  from  all  about  would  be  coming  to  town  to  the 
circus.  How  well  she  remembered  one  such  day. 

"  Nick,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  North  Lanes — that's  where 
I  saw  you  first.  Do  you  remember  ?" 

The  man  started  in  his  turn. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  87 

"  So  it  is,  Marcella,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Dashed  if  with  all 
the  going  and  coming  we've  done  since,  I  hadn't  clean  for 
gotten  the  name  of  the  town  !  We've  been  there  since  then, 
haven't  we  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  once,  when  Elizabeth  was  a 
little  thing.  That  was  when  we  brought  the  elephant,"  she 
added  with  professional  pride. 

"  Yes,  and  a  nice  time  we  had  with  it,  too !  Well,  if  I'd 
forgot  the  place  I  haven't  forgot  the  luck  that  came  to  me 
there,  Marcella,"  he  said  with  rough  tenderness.  Marcella 
looked  up  at  him  smiling.  The  torches  had  gone  out  alto 
gether,  and  they  stood  in  the  light  of  the  waning  moon. 
"  No,  I  guess  you  haven't,  Nick,"  she  replied.  "  And  over 
there  in  the  valley,"  she  went  on  after  a  moment,  "  is  where 
I  used  to  live.  I've  been  sort  of  thinking  about  it  to-night. 
I  wonder  if  I'd  know  anybody  there  now.  I  suppose  they'll 
all  be  over  to  see  the  show." 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  replied  Nicholas,  who  knew,  with 
out  exaggerating,  his  commanding,  if  isolated  position.  To 
Marcella's  dramatic  instincts  there  was  a  strong  appeal  in 
the  thought  of  her  pretty  daughter  riding,  in  all  the  imperial 
triumph  of  a  Roman  chariot,  into  the  little  town  from  which 
she  had  run  away  twenty  years  ago  with  the  handsome 
young  ringmaster.  She  had  been  a  pretty  girl  herself 
then,  and  she  had  made  a  genuine  love-match  in  spite  of  all 
the  arguments  advanced  against  it.  The  ringmaster  had 
been  detained  in  North  Lanes  by  one  of  the  various  acci 
dents  that  may  befall  the  members  of  a  travelling  circus,  and 
had  employed  his  spare  time  making  love  to  pretty  Marcella 
Brown. 

The  day  before  he  left  she  slipped  away  to  the  next  town, 
where  she  met  him  and  married  him,  leaving  all  the  gossips 
to  lift  up  their  hands  over  the  headstrong  whims  of  that 
Marcella,  and  her  probable  future  misery.  How  she  had 


88  WHITE    BIRCHES 

revelled  in  the  excitement !  How  her  romantic  soul  had 
admired  the  elegance  of  the  magnificent  ringmaster ! 

"  Marcella,"  said  her  husband  as  they  turned  back  to  the 
tent,  "  when  you  was  thinking  about  the  valley  then — you 
wasn't  thinking  you  was  sorry  you  left  it,  was  you  ?"  There 
was  a  diffidence  in  the  tones  of  the  powerful  circus  man 
ager  that  was  flattery  in  itself. 

"  No,  Nick,"  said  the  handsome,  dark  woman,  pausing  as 
another  low  growl  from  the  cages  fell  on  their  ears,  and 
then  going  on,  speaking  softly,  lest  her  rich  voice  should 
disturb  the  sleeper  near  at  hand.  "  No,  I  haven't  never 
been  sorry."  She  lifted  the  flap  of  the  tent  and  went  in. 
On  a  couch  of  boughs,  beyond  the  light  of  the  small  candle 
that  was  burning  slowly,  down  in  the  farther  corner,  lay  a 
young  girl  asleep. 

"  I  sha'n't  take  much  of  a  nap  myself,"  said  Nicholas 
from  the  doorway.  "  You'd  better  try  and  get  one,  but 
we'll  start  before  light.  I'll  sort  of  look  round,"  and  he 
turned  towards  his  own  quarters. 

"  I  guess  I'll  let  Elizabeth  go,"  whispered  Marcella. 

"  I  guess  you  will,"  he  answered  with  a  smile. 

Early  in  the  gray  morning  the  strange  train  wound  along 
the  country  road.  Mademoiselle  Georgiana,  the  celebrated 
equestrienne,  was  accommodated  with  the  manager's  family 
in  a  comfortable  enough  conveyance  in  the  rear  of  the  line. 

Half  asleep,  the  jockeys  and  beast-tamers  rode,  in  a  hit- 
or-miss  fashion,  whatever  seemed  handy. 

Looking  across  the  dewy  fields  through  the  misty  air,  one 
might  have  seen  two  or  three  camels  patiently  poking  their 
way  along,  probably  wondering  why  they  had  been  brought 
to  a  country  where  the  remarkable  domestic  arrangements 
of  their  insides  were  really  of  no  particular  advantage,  since 
water  was  to  be  had  on  every  side.  An  observer  would 
have  rubbed  his  eyes  to  make  sure  that  it  was  not  a  stretch 


WHITE    BIRCHES  89 

of  sandy  desert  with  a  pyramid  in  the  distance  that  made 
the  landscape  which  bore  their  moving  figures,  instead  of 
the  pale  bloom  and  dampness  of  the  New  England  country. 

Huge,  misshapen  forms  draped  in  disguising  folds  spoke 
of  uncertain  magnificence  later  to  be  revealed. 

Everything  was  vague,  mysterious,  awful.  So,  quietly, 
suggestively,  secretly,  the  circus  train  stole  into  the  out-; 
skirts  of  North  Lanes,  to  make  ready  for  the  grand  parade 
at  nine  o'clock. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"It  is  common  for  the  younger  sort  to  lack  discretion." 

' '  She  should  never  have  looked  at  me 
If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her !" 

"  There  are  fireflames  noondays  kindle 
Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish,  whereby  swollen  ambitions  dwindle." 

IT  is  a  person  of  small  imagination  that  finds  himself  en 
tirely  indifferent  to  circus  performances.  Beyond  the  satis 
faction  of  natural  curiosity  with  foreign  elements,  beyond 
that  of  the  ear  in  the  stirring  strains  of  a  brass  band 
mingled  with  those  of  the  mysterious  calliope,  beyond  that 
of  the  eye  in  the  brilliance  of  gold  and  spangles  and 
strange  exotic  magnificence  of  chariots  and  houdahs — be 
yond  these  is  an  appeal  to  the  deeper  if  vaguer  instincts  of 
humanity.  Perhaps  it  is  the  chord  of  wildness  in  all  of  us 
that  vibrates  at  the  sight  of  those  strange,  fierce  creatures 
with  their  associations  of  pathless  jungle  and  burning 
desert;  perhaps  it  is  the  shudder  that  the  sight  of  any 
thing  lawless  and  uncontrolled  brings  to  our  careful  civiliza 
tion.  These  emotions  have  each  a  force  of  their  own ;  but, 
besides  these,  there  is  in  the  spectacle  an  undeniable 
pathos.  There  in  the  cage  with  the  wild  beasts  sit  men 
whose  life  and  limb  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  savage  impulse,  a 
careless  motion  ;  the  cruel  little  whip  in  their  hands  the 
only  bar  between  them  and  a  tearing  asunder,  their  cool 
ness  the  result  of  a  long  training  in  jeopardy  every  hour. 
There  are  the  gayly  dressed  women  in  golden  equipages, 
whose  life,  to  the  open-mouthed  looker-on,  seems  a  beauti- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  91 

ful  Olympic  dream  of  high  carnival  on  the  top  of  elevations 
precarious  as  those  of  political  eminence,  and  who  are 
doubtless  weary  of  the  stupid,  laughing,  cruel  crowd  with  a 
weariness  that  makes  their  mouths  bitter  and  their  eyes 
hard.  Slowly  they  all  pass  by  for  the  amusement  of  a 
marvelling  people,  that  cares  not  a  whit  for  them  or 
their  fate,  but  loves  the  sight  because  it  is  human  nature 
to  love,  it — it  is  almost  a  Roman  holiday.  So  it  looks  to 
the  impressible  outsider;  and  though  the  carping  and  the 
worldly-wise  laugh  and  tell  him  that  the  wild  beasts  are 
gorged  with  meat  and  cannot  be  roused  from  their  stupor, 
and  that  the  weary  women  are  only  men  dressed  up  and 
probably  swearing  at  the  heat — nevertheless,  to  him  the 
underlying  pathos  remains. 

It  was  no  jaded  sight-seer  that  stood  on  the  little  porch 
of  Matilda  Spore,  in  company  with  her  accomplished 
nephew,  waiting  for  the  grand  parade.  Jib  Trent  had  left 
the  valley  early  in  the  morning,  that  he  might  be  in  time. 
Uncle  Denver  would  drive  Rhodope  in  later  to  see  the  cir 
cus  proper,  and  wagons  would  be  coming  in  all  day  from 
the  country  round,  including  a  large  party  from  Israel 
Clock's,  but  Jib  could  not  afford  to  wait ;  he  could  not  lose 
one  of  the  many  excitements  of  the  day.  He  had  never  seen 
a  circus,  and  he  knew  not  what  of  strangeness  and  wonder 
was  in  store  for  him.  He  awaited  it  here  with  Tim — 
Aunt  Matilda's  porch  being  a  favorable  situation — under 
neath  his  calm  exterior  a  prey  to  impatient  excitement. 
Even  Tim,  with  all  his  memories  of  past  circuses  and  his 
indisputable  vantage-ground  of  outlived  emotions,  was  not 
free  from  a  thrill  as  the  first  stirring  sound  of  the  some 
what  curtailed  drums  and  trumpets  of  the  procession 
reached  his  ears.  The  crowd  on  the  narrow  little  sidewalk 
had  increased,  Aunt  Matilda  came  to  the  door,  there  was  a 
hurrying  and  pushing  of  expectation,  and  the  train  began 


92  WHITE    BIRCHES 

to  go  by.  Tawdry,  trite,  and  disillusionizing  enough,  the 
circus  keeps  its  hold  because,  after  all,  it  is  made  up  of  real 
ities — it  is  not  the  clever  illusion  of  a  stage,  however  suc 
cessfully  deceptive,  and  Jib's  imagination,  fed  by  long  pas 
turing  in  the  fields  of  romance,  was  ready  to  invest  it  all 
with  a  halo  of  Oriental  brilliancy. 

"  Of  all  days,"  said  Miss  Matilda  Spore,  "  for  a  circus, 
seems  to  me  Thursday's  the  worst." 

She  was  of  the  tall  angularity  of  the  typical  New  England 
spinster,  and  her  glasses  seemed  endued  with  a  peculiar 
sharpness  for  detecting  motes  in  her  surroundings.  Tim's 
attention  was  not  so  absorbed  by  the  approaching  proces 
sion  that  he  could  not  transfer  a  portion  thereof  to  Aunt 
Matilda. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Thursday  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  you're  home  for  one  thing,"  said  Aunt  Matilda 
with  perfect  readiness.  "  Seems  as  though  that  ought  to 
be  rampagin'  enough  for  one  day." 

"  It's  fine  weather  for  it,  anyway,"  said  Jib  absently. 

Miss  Spore  looked  about  her,  up  into  the  clear  sky, 
across  to  the  sunny  hills. 

"  It  ain't  anythin'  but  a  weather-breeder,"  she  said. 

There  never  is  anything  to  say  to  those  people  who  can't 
rejoice  in  a  fine  day  without  adding  that  it  is  a  weather- 
breeder.  It  is  too  vague  a  term  to  admit  of  circumstantial 
disproof — and  Jib  wisely  refrained  from  further  comment. 
Tim  indulged  in  a  wink  apparently  for  his  own  sole  enjoy 
ment,  and  then  gave  his  undivided  attention  to  the  circus. 

"  Seems  to  me,"  said  Aunt  Matilda,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  even  her  carping  spirit  was  quelled  by  the  novelty  of 
the  scene,  "  them  camels  is  dretful  moth-eaten." 

"  Yes,  and  they've  got  humps !"  said  Tim  scoffingly ; 
"  and  they  ain't  very  pretty  anyway.  I  suppose  you'd  like 
'em  to  be  kind  of  smooth  and  regular  like  the  parlor  andi- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  93 

rons,  wouldn't  you  ?  Gorry  !  Aunt  Matilda,  you'd  like  a 
giraffe  to  have  his  head  set  right  plum  down  between  his 
shoulders !" 

"  There  ain't  any  sech  a  thing  as  a  giraffe  in  the  hull 
lot,"  replied  Miss  Spore  with  that  dexterity  in  turning  an 
adversary's  argument  to  her  advantage  for  which  she  was 
remarkable.  "  'Tain't  much  of  a  circus  without  a  giraffe." 

Jib  did  not  make  any  comments  at  all.  Leaning  forward, 
his  arms  resting  on  the  low  gatepost,  his  straw  hat  pushed 
back  from  his  handsome  forehead,  the  deep,  rich  brown  of 
his  tanned  cheeks  making  his  hair  lighter  and  his  blue  eyes 
bluer,  the  strength  of  his  tall  figure  perceptible  in  the 
loose,  careless  cut  of  his  rough  clothes,  he  was  devouring 
the  scene  with  all  the  intentness  of  a  child.  It  was  as  if 
there  were  unrolling  before  him  some  of  the  pageants  which 
until  now  had  but  wended  their  glittering  way  through  the 
leaves  of  his  books.  The  camels  with  their  uncouth  riders 
were  bearing  untold  riches  in  an  Arabian  caravan  ;  the 
horses  with  their  booted  and  spurred  riders  might  break 
any  moment  into  a  gallop,  which  should  distance  the  offi 
cers  of  the  law,  and  the  wild  beasts  were  crouching  for  the 
death-spring  in  the  hot,  stifling  forests  of  Africa. 

"  Them  is  the  tamest  wild  beasts  I  ever  laid  eyes  on," 
said  Aunt  Matilda.  "  Guess  you  could  yoke  up  a  couple 
of  'em  and  drive  'em  to  pastur'." 

"Now  you'd  better  let  them  wild  beasts  alone,"  said 
Tim,  whether  with  liberal  or  metaphorical  significance  it 
was  difficult  to  say. 

"  They  come  awful  short  in  spots  when  they  got  to  that 
leopard,"  went  on  Aunt  Matilda  with  annoying  impartial 
ity.  "  There  ain't  a  dozen  of  'em  altogether — small  ones." 

"  I  suppose  you  thought  he'd  be  laid  out  like  a  crazy- 
quilt,  didn't  you  ?"  inquired  Tim.  "  One  of  them  fine  ones 
with  fancy  stitches  between." 


94  WHITE    BIRCHES 

What  Aunt  Matilda  might  have  replied,  strong  as  she 
was  in  the  fact  of  the  leopard's  spots  being,  as  it  were, 
vouched  for  by  Holy  Writ,  is  uncertain,  for  just  now  the 
trick  ponies  began  to  go  by,  and  in  the  midst  of  them,  on  a 
large  horse,  with  the  bearing  of  a  Roman  general,  cut  off 
from  all  work-a-day  associations  by  the  adoption  of  a  suit 
of  purple  corduroy,  chastely  ornamented  with  gold  lace, 
rode  the  owner  of  the  circus  himself. 

"  I  declare  to  glory !"  exclaimed  Miss  Spore,  "  if  there 
ain't  Nicholas  French  that  Marcella  Brown  ran  away  with 
twenty  years  ago  !" 

"Which  of  'em?"  demanded  Tim  sceptically.  "Do  you 
mean  the  Arabian  Chieftain  or  the  full-blooded  Indian 
Bravo  what's  ridin'  barebacked  ?  You're  always  recogniz 
ing  somebody  that's  about  as  much  alike  as  a  trout  and  a 
tree-toad." 

Miss  Spore  was  too  much  excited  to  heed  her  nephew's 
impertinence  j  she  only  settled  her  glasses  more  firmly  on 
her  nose. 

"That's  him,"  she  said,  "the  one  in  the  middle  with 
the  purple  clo'es  and  the  long  whip."  She  nodded  franti 
cally,  for  even  Matilda  Spore  was  not  above  the  natural 
human  pleasure  in  recognizing  and  being  recognized  by 
those  of  even  temporary  high  degree.  Nicholas*  however, 
perceived  in  this  only  a  tribute  to  him  in  his  official  capaci 
ty,  and  never  having  known  Miss  Matilda  save  by  hearsay, 
he  saluted  with  his  whip,  without  disturbing  for  a  moment 
the  majestic  calm  of  his  demeanor. 

Tim  and  his  aunt  were  both  obliged  to  shout  their  obser 
vations  at  each  other,  for  the  noise  of  the  band  and  the 
commotion  on  the  little  street  were  quite  overpowering. 
Jib  heard  them  without  heeding.  He  only  moved  his 
shoulders  a  little  impatiently  to  throw  off  the  influence 
that  would  seek  to  introduce  anything  so  belittling  as 


WHITE    BIRCHES  95 

the  private  position  of  any  individual  of  this  glittering 
whole. 

"I  wonder  if  she's  along,"  speculated  Aunt  Matilda ;  "  but 
probably  he's  married  half  a  dozen  since  then,"  she  added 
in  an  undertone  of  hope  and  charity — "  I  ain't  got  any 
faith  in  circus  men." 

"  Here  she  is  !"  said  Tim,  waving  his  hat  with  frantic  en 
thusiasm,  the  ice  of  reserve  that  a  cold  world  had  engen 
dered  having  rapidly  melted  in  the  heat  of  experience. 
"  Here's  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean  !" 

"  Laws  !"  said  Aunt  Matilda  contemptuously,  "  she  ain't 
anything  but  a  stuffed  doll."  There  was  a  moment's  pause  ; 
there  was  some  delay  in  the  line  ahead,  and  the  trumpeters 
had  come  to  the  end  of  their  tune. 

"  Well,  she's  a  mighty  smart  stuffed  doll,"  Tim  piped  up 
in  the  comparative  silence.  "  She  winks  regular,  and  she 
just  says  to  the  driver,  *  Go  easy,  for  my  helmet's  blamed 
topply,'  and  the  driver  says  he,  '  I  will,  Rip.' " 

The  bystanders  in  the  immediate  vicinity  laughed,  and 
Aunt  Matilda  hastened  to  reply  in  a  tone  which  freed  her 
from  all  suspicion  of  being  disconcerted, 

"  Well,  I  should  say  his  helmet  was  topply." 

The  procession  began  to  move  on  again.  Really,  it  was 
a  very  creditable  one.  There  was  a  .louder  clash  from  the 
instruments.  What  was  coming  now?  Jib  turned  his 
head  and  then  stood  still  waiting,  his  head  raised,  breath 
less,  his  blue  eyes  deep  with  some  new  excitement,  as  he 
looked  at  this  feature  of  the  grand  parade.  In  a  gild 
ed  cart,  upon  the  adornment  of  which,  it  seemed  to  his 
thrilled  fancy,  the  riches  of  no  clime  had  been  spared,  be 
hind  four  fiery  little  ponies,  the  reins  of  which  her  small 
hands  held  with  an  easy  strength,  her  small  head  encircled 
with  a  shining  crown,  her  straight,  slight  figure  draped  in 
the  long  folds  of  some  wonderful  statuesque  garment,  stood 


96  WHITE    BIRCHES 

a  girl,  and,  as  she  held  in  the  prancing  ponies  behind 
the  drums  and  the  cymbals,  she  raised  her  eyes  and 
they  looked  straight  down  into  Jib's  as  he  waited  by  the 
roadside,  and  he  forgot  the  visionary  splendors  of  the 
equipage,  and  only  saw  the  piquant,  dark  beauty  of  her 
oval  face,  the  curls  of  black  hair  under  the  heavy  golden 
crown,  and  the  subdued  laughter  of  her  dark  eyes.  As  she 
met  the  sudden,  startled — what,  she  did  not  know — in  the 
glance  of  this  handsome  young  countryman  so  near  her, 
but  beyond  the  staring  crowd  of  boys  and  girls  in  the  road 
way,  she  looked  down,  her  lips  quivered  as  if  she  would 
have  laughed  if  she  had  dared,  and  she  gave  her  attention 
to  her  long  whip,  while  the  impatient  ponies  danced  along 
the  dusty  road.  Jib  never  turned  his  eyes  away  from  her 
until  the  last  sparkle  of  her  golden  circlet  was  lost  in  the 
distance.  Gone  were  the  barbaric  glories  of  Bedouin,  lion, 
and  bear-tamer.  It  was  as  if  some  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
had  come  from  the  distant,  and  by  no  means  geographically 
certain,  Aiden  of  his  wildest  romances.  It  was  as  if  all  the 
deeds  of  derring-do  performed  by  his  favorite  heroes  on 
what,  it  must  be  confessed,  had  seemed  to  Jib  the  insuffi 
cient  grounds  of  love  for  some  perverse,  if  affectionate, 
heroine,  had  suddenly  become  natural  and  unexaggerated. 
It  was  as  if  a  princess  who  lived  in  the  Court  of  the  Lions, 
and  walked  upon  gold  and  silver,  and  laughed  at  the  threat- 
enings  of  an  adversary's  triumph,  had  deigned  to  wend  her 
way  up  the  village  street.  These  are  a  few  of  the  things 
that  it  seemed  to  Jib  had  taken  place  when  Elizabeth 
French  drove  the  circus  ponies  through  the  town  of  North 
Lanes,  arrayed  in  the  gorgeous  raiment  of  Mademoiselle 
Georgiana,  the  celebrated  equestrienne. 

"Those  ponies  ain't  very  well  matched,"  said  Miss  Ma 
tilda  Spore.  '*  I  could  'a'  told  'em  where  they  could  get 
better  ones." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  97 

"And  you  could  have  drove  'em  better,  too,  couldn't 
you  ?"  asked  her  irreverent  relative. 

"  I'd  'a'  put  my  mind  on  it  more  than  the  one  that  is 
doin'  it,"  retorted  Aunt  Matilda.  "  She  see  a  good  deal 
besides  them  ponies.  She's  the  very  moral  of  what  Mar- 
cella  Brown  was  twenty  years  ago,"  she  went  on  thought 
fully.  "  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  her  daughter.  Pretty 
kind  of  business  for  Marcella  Brown's  daughter  to  be  at — 
drivin'  them  godless  ponies !" 

Jib  roused  himself  from  the  fit  of  abstraction  into  which 
he  had  fallen  since  the  tail  of  the  procession  had  disappeared 
down  the  street.  He  had  not  heard  a  word  of  the  conver 
sation. 

"  I'll  meet  you  here,  Tim,"  he  said  lazily,  "  in  time  for  the 
show,"  and,  going  out  of  the  gate,  he  joined  the  pushing  and 
laughing  crowd  moving  down  the  street. 

Matilda  looked  after  him  for  a  moment ;  then  she  said,  in 
a  tone  of  reminiscence, 

"  Denver  Trent  used  to  know  Marcella  consid'ble  well. 
She  mittened  him  the  year  before  Nick  French  come  here." 

"  Hum !"  commented  her  astute  nephew  contemptuous 
ly  ;  "  mighty  sight  of  a  fool  a  man  is  to  get  mittened  by  a 
woman." 

"  And  a  mighty  sight  fooler  a  man  is  if  he  don't  ever  give 
a  woman  the  chance !"  returned  Miss  Spore  with  a  prompt 
ness  which  seldom  failed  her,  and  to  which  Tim  yielded  an 
ungrudging  admiration.  She  darted  into  the  house  and 
shut  the  door  with  her  last  words,  leaving  Tim  with,  for  a 
wonder,  no  reply  upon  his  lips,  seated  in  state  upon  the 
gate-post.  He  smiled  and  shook  his  head  at  the  closing 
door,  and  then  observed  to  himself, 

"  Gorry !     I  d'know  but  the  old  lady's  right,"  a  reflection 
which  showed  him  to  be  open  to  the  convictions  of  a  lib 
eral  philosophy. 
7 


98  WHITE    BIRCHES 

The  circus  performance  was  nearing  its  close,  but  was 
still  in  full  swing.  Bob  Stein  was  being  uproariously  funny, 
as  the  frequent  bursts  of  applause  from  within  the  tent  fully 
testified.  Mademoiselle  Georgiana  was  making  up  for  any 
prestige  she  might  have  lost  earlier  in  the  day,  by  marvel 
lous  feats  and  by  unmeasured  prodigality  in  the  matter  of 
spangles.  The  cages  of  the  wild  beasts  were  nearly  de 
serted,  not  being  at  present  features  of  the  in-door  enter 
tainment.  There  were  not  many  of  them ;  a  wild-cat  or 
two,  the  disillusionizing  leopard,  several  of  those  creatures 
whose  labels  present  absolutely  no  suggestion  to  the  untu 
tored  mind,  but  whose  personal  oddities  are  an  attraction, 
and  a  lion.  Nothing  can  ever  belittle  a  lion,  and  an  exhi 
bition,  however  small,  always  acquires  a  certain  dignity  from 
its  presence.  In  front  of  its  cage  stood  Jib  and  Rhodope. 
She  had  felt  the  close,  hot  air  of  the  tent  unpleasantly,  and 
had  asked  Jib  to  take  her  out.  He  was  only  too  glad  to 
come,  for  the  brilliancy  of  the  spectacle  to  which  he  had 
looked  forward  for  weeks  was  a  dim  neutrality,  for  nowhere 
about  the  stage  or  in  the  audience  was  to  be  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  dark  eyes  and  close-cut  curls  of  the  occupant  of  the 
Roman  chariot.  How  eagerly  he  had  waited  for  the  appear 
ance  of  Mademoiselle  Georgiana,  and  what  a  sigh  of  disap 
pointment  had  mingled  with  the  easily  excited  applause. 
He  was  restless,  though  enchained  by  the  novelty  of  the 
scene,  and  gladly  seized  Rhodope's  suggestion  that  they 
should  wait  outside  for  a  while.  To-morrow,  he  felt  sure, 
the  broadsides  of  humor  delivered  by  the  clown  and  the 
ringmaster  would  overwhelm  his  whole  being  in  the  recol 
lection,  but  to-night — and  he  took  a  long  breath  of  the  cool 
night  air  without,  as  he  and  Rhodope  passed  through  the 
opening  of  the  tent. 

Outside  there  were  glaring  torches  and  people  passing 
here  and  there,  and  subdued  sounds  of  confusion  and  creat- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  99 

ure  complaint,  but  the  contrast  with  what  they  had  left  was 
strong  enough  to  make  it  seem  quiet  and  refreshing. 

Rhodope  looked  into  the  other  cages  with  a  transient 
interest,  but  before  the  lion's  cage  she  paused  fascinated. 
She  had  never  seen  a  lion  before,  and  as  she  watched  the 
steady  up  and  down,  up  and  down  pacing  of  the  superb 
creature,  her  deep  eyes  glowed  and  she  held  her  breath 
with  excitement.  Jib  moved  about  restlessly.  He  had 
been  from  cage  to  cage  several  times  already,  and  al 
though  it  had  been  a  momentous  experience,  he  was  not 
under  the  spell  like  his  sister  —  possibly  a  stronger  spell 
had  taken  hold  of  his  imagination.  The  small  tent  be 
fore  which  Marcella  and  Nicholas  had  talked  the  night 
before  was  pitched,  as  usual,  just  outside  of  the  circle 
belonging  to  the  circus  proper.  It  looked  dark  and  de 
serted.  As  Jib  moved  on,  from  one  object  to  another, 
leaving  his  sister  to  her  preoccupation,  he  drew  near  this 
quieter  part  of  the  grounds.  Finally  he  stepped  outside 
of  the  circle  of  light,  and  stood  leaning  against  a  tree, 
nearly  facing  the  tent  and  its  surroundings.  He  could  see 
Rhodope  ,  she  was  not  far  off,  and  he  was  going  back  to  her 
in  a  moment,  but  just  now  a  bit  of  freedom  was  what  he 
wanted.  He  scarcely  saw  the  little  tent  a  stone's  throw  to 
his  right  as  he  stood  half  turned  away  from  it.  The  late 
moon,  upon  which  the  valley  revellers  depended  to  light 
their  way  home,  dimly  outlined  his  figure  and  the  tall  tree 
against  which  he  rested  his  broad  shoulders.  The  flap  of 
the  tent  was  moved  cautiously  aside.  A  small,  dark,  curly 
head  was  put  out  and  quickly  withdrawn,  and  the  flap  fell. 
Apparently  encouraged  by  the  quietness,  and  possibly  by 
maternal  inattention  within,  a  second  time  the  folds  parted 
and  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  opening.  She  was  another 
person  from  the  barbaric  chief  tain  ess  of  the  morning.  In 
a  plain,  dark  dress,  the  crimson  flush  of  excitement  replaced 


100  WHITE   BIRCHES 

by  a  soft  glow  of  color  in  her  brown  cheeks,  she  was  quite 
as  pretty  if  less  magnificent ;  her  short,  dark  curls  still  fell 
about  her  forehead  and  the  curves  of  her  throat,  as  they  had 
fallen  under  the  golden  crown.     The  morning's  experience 
had  been  for  her,  too,  an  unsettling  one.    Besides  the  natural 
exhilaration  of  her  young  soul  in  reducing  those  cavorting 
ponies  to  the  decorum  of  a  procession,  there  had  been  the 
atmosphere  of  admiration  that  no  woman,  however  young 
and  inexperienced,  can  breathe  with  entire  unconscious 
ness.     As  she  thought  of  her  triumphal  progress,  Jib's  face 
came  back  to  her,  the  startled  look  of  his  handsome  eyes 
as  they  met  hers.     At  first  she  had  not  been  much  struck 
by  it ;  she  had  looked  along  the  way  through  which  she 
passed  for  other  similar  impressions,  but  she  had  met  none. 
Looks  of  admiration  she  had  had  in  plenty,  but  nothing 
like  that  quick,  intense  glance,  and  nobody  half  as  good- 
looking  had  she  seen  at  all.     To  be  sure,  Mademoiselle 
Euphemia,  who  had  driven  the  other  chariot,  had  had  any 
number  of  such  experiences  on   the  way,  and  had  seen 
scores  of  attractive  people  in  her  time ;  but  Elizabeth  had 
not,  and  consequently  Jib  recurred  to  her  memory  with  a 
decidedly  particular  interest.    To-night,  when  she  saw  him 
coming  out  of  the  tent  with  a  beautiful  girl  who  must  be  his 
sister  from  the  resemblance  between  them,  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  give  some  sign  of  her  presence  ;  but 
with  feminine  consistency  she  waited  until  he  could  not  see 
her  without  a  special  effort.     Half  with  a  child's  love  of 
mischief,  half  with  a  woman's  impulse  towards  sentiment, 
-she  drew  aside  the  curtains,  stood  a  moment,  and  stepped 
out.     Jib  stood  motionless  in  the  shadow,  looking  towards 
his  sister.     Elizabeth  moved  a  few  steps  forward  into  the 
light  of  the  torches  and  gazed  in  an  absorbed  way  at  the 
zebra. 

"  Elizabeth  !"   called    Marcella   from    the   tent.      "  Eliz- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  IOI 

abeth !"  Jib  started  and  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  There  she  stood,  the  vision  he  had  sighed  for !  He 
recognized  her  instantly,  though  her  panoply  of  gorgeous- 
ness  was  absent,  and  with  the  simple  directness  of  his 
nature  he  went  towards  her.  But  she  had  started  too,  and 
with  a  sudden  shyness  and  fear  of  consequences,  now  that 
the  attention  of  this  stranger  had  really  fallen  upon  her, 
and  a  little  dread  of  reproof,  she  sped  back  to  the  tent,  and 
the  curtains  fell  together  behind  her.  Quickly  Jib's  stride 
brought  him  to  the  tent,  and  there  he  paused,  not  near 
enough  to  hear  what  the  low  voices  said  that  were  speaking 
in  the  interior,  but  near  enough  to  make  himself  heard 
should  he  be  so  minded.  A  man  of  more  sophisticated 
impulses  might  have  hesitated  in  Jib's  position,  and  pos 
sibly  have  abandoned  the  idea  of  speaking  to  the  girl  at 
all.  But  he  thought  of  but  one  thing  to  do.  He  glanced 
about  him.  Rhodope  was  still  in  front  of  the  lion's  cage  ; 
there  was  no  one  very  near,  few  people  were  outside  at  all. 
He  turned  again  to  the  tent. 

"  Elizabeth  !"  he  called  out.     "  Elizabeth  !" 

The  voices  inside  ceased  ;  there  was  a  moment's  pause 
before  the  folds  were  drawn  aside  and  Marcella  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  She  looked  angry.  "Young  man,"  she 
said  peremptorily,  "  I  want  none  of  your  impudence.  You 
can  stop  calling  my  daughter  by  her  name  and  you  can  go 
away.  This  isn't  part  of  the  show  !" 

If  Jib  was  unsophisticated,  he  had  the  courage  of  his 
calm  temperament,  and  fortunately  he  hit  on  what  hap 
pened  to  be  the  best  thing  to  say. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  call  her,"  he  said  simply. 
"  My  name  is  Jib  Trent.  I  want  very  much  to  see  her." 

"Jib  Trent?"  said  Marcella,  her  voice,  in  spite  of  its 
righteous  indignation,  softening  a  little.  She,  too,  had  been 
watching  the  crowd  this  evening;  she  had  seen  Denver 


102  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Trent  go  in  with  Rhodope.  She  expected  to  hunt  up  some 
of  the  valley  folks  before  they  left. 

"  Are  you  anything  to  Denver  Trent  ?"  she  asked. 

"  He's  my  uncle ;  I  live  with  him." 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  good  young  man,  then,"  she  said 
impulsively. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  drawled 
Jib,  "you,  nor  Elizabeth." 

Marcella's  good-natured  laugh  rose  to  her  lips. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  if  you  want  to  come  round  after  the 
show  and  bring  your  Uncle  Denver  along,  I  guess  you  can 
see  us  both." 

Jib  looked  back  again  to  the  lighted  tent.  The  perform 
ance  was  over;  he  heard  the  crowd  moving  towards  the 
ways  of  exit. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  went  back  to  Rhodope.  He 
had  been  away  only  a  few  moments,  but  it  seemed  a  long 
time.  Some  of  the  first  people  to  come  out  passed  near 
them.  Their  voices  were  different  in  quality  from  most  of 
those  about. 

"  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  decide  between  the  claims  of 
Mesdemoiselles  Georgiana  and  Euphemia,"  hesitated  Dave- 
nant.  "  Georgiana  is  the  greater  artiste,  but  Euphemia  has 
the  esprit.  In  speaking  of  professionals  of  any  sort,  one 
falls  involuntarily  into  the  French  language,"  he  added  with 
some  regret.  Rhodope  did  not  heed  the  crowd  nor  their 
voices.  Human  beings  were  so  small  and  trifling  beside 
the  tremendous  animal  she  was  watching.  How  weary  he 
was  of  this  circumscribed  pacing — this  creature  who  had 
had  miles  of  wilderness  to  traverse !  How  awful  that  co 
lossal  head  with  its  tawny  mane  !  Rhodope  shuddered  as 
the  restless,  impatient  eyes  of  the  animal  looked,  unseeing, 
unheeding,  into  hers — eyes  of  a  ferocity  chained,  but  all  un 
tamed. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  103 

"  Behold  !"  said  the  high,  thin  voice  of  Florence  Need- 
ham  in  half-suppressed  tones,  "  the  lion  is  now  exhibited 
with  Una  in  attendance.  The  faithful  beast  is,  however, 
submitting  to  temporary  confinement,  lest  he  attack  Una's 
other  admirers." 

"  And  the  gentle  knight  now  comes,  pricking  out  of  the 
circus  tent,"  suggested  Davenant,  as  Medcott's  tall  figure 
appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  Austin  was  compelled 
to  make  a  detour  to  rejoin  his  companions,  and  in  so  doing 
passed  close  to  Rhodope. 

"  Have  you  enjoyed  it  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  saw  you  in  the 
tent." 

Rhodope  started  and  looked  up  into  his  face.  She  for 
got  even  the  lion,  which  still  paced  restlessly  so  near  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  all  so  new.  I  think  it  is  wonder 
ful." 

Florence  Needham's  lips  drew  tightly  together  as  she 
watched  them.  She  could  not  catch  their  words,  but  she 
could  see  their  faces. 

"  But,"  went  on  Rhodope,  "  it  is  cruel  to  keep  him  shut 
up,"  and  she  turned  back  to  the  caged  beast  "  He  ought 
to  be  free." 

Medcott  looked  into  the  cage.  "  He  is  no  worse  off  than 
the  rest  of  us,"  he  answered.  "  We  all  ought  to  be  free,  and 
we  are  all  bound  and  caged."  He  spoke  with  sudden  vio 
lence.  Rhodope  did  not  comprehend  him.  She  perceived 
that  the  others  were  waiting  for  him. 

"  Come,  Jib,"  she  said,  "  we  must  go." 

Medcott  lifted  his  hat  and  made  his  way  to  his  party. 
"  I'll  wager  a  penny^'  said  Davenant,  as  he  joined  them, 
"  that  you've  just  been  getting  off  something  epigrammatic 
— or,  say,  an  aphorism.  You  have  just  that  look."  Med 
cott  did  not  reply, 

"  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  successfully  appropriate  quota- 


104  WHITE    BIRCHES 

tion  like  Mrs.  Needham's  and  mine,"  Davenant  continued 
to  speculate,  as  he  elbowed  the  crowd  away  from  Edwina 
Screed,  "  there's  no  mistaking  the  air  of  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  I  suppose  it  does  give  a  man  a  distinctive  look  to  have 
spoken  the  truth,"  said  Medcott  grimly. 

"  There  !"  said  Davenant  calmly  in  Miss  Screed's  em 
barrassed  ear,  "  he  has  begun  to  be  epigrammatic  and  he 
can't  stop !" 


CHAPTER   IX 

' '  A  crowd  is  not  company ;  and  faces  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures  ; 
and  talk  is  but  a  tinkling  cymbal,  where  there  is  no  love." 

' '  The  forests  had  done  it :  there  they  stood  : 
We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play." 

MEDCOTT  paused  in  his  rapid  walk  up  the  hard,  gravelly 
road.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  feel  like  himself  again,  to  be 
able  to  go  forth  with  his  long,  swinging  stride,  to  discover 
some  of  the  secrets  of  the  hill  country,  to  leave  behind  him 
the  pettinesses  and  the  worryings,  as  well  as  the  light  jol 
lity  of  the  farm-house  with  its  circle  of  high  civilization.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  air  was  freer  than  ever,  and  that 
he  could  walk  on  and  on  for  uncounted  miles.  He  had 
wanted  Davenant  to  go  with  him,  but  Davenant  had  de 
clined. 

"I'm  not  a  climber,"  he  said;  "to  me  the  summit  of  a 
hill  is  very  much  like  the  foot,  only  harder  to  get  to.  I 
know  you  can  see  more  at  the  top,  but  I  am  pretty  well 
used  to  seeing  things  that  are  out  of  my  reach — it's  hardly 
worth  using  myself  up  for.  I  think  I'll  stay  in  and  about 
the  Hive" — this  being  Davenant's  term  for  the  Clock  house 
hold. 

"  You  mind  the  stinging  as  little  as  anybody,"  laughed 
Medcott. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  it  makes  very  good  material  some 
times.  That's  where  we  literary  fellows  have  the  pull  over 


I06  WHITE   BIRCHES 

you  artists.  We  don't  have  to  wait  for  the  picturesque. 
We  can  make  a  page  out  of  nothings." 

The  spot  where  Medcott  paused  was  just  before  his  way 
turned  from  the  road  into  the  trail  that  led  up  the  moun 
tain,  and  the  cool  shade,  by  the  river  that  appeared  sud 
denly  under  the  trees,  flowed  under  a  wooden  bridge,  and 
disappeared  suddenly  under  the  trees  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  tempted  him  to  linger  a  moment  and  look 
back  on  the  valley,  and  then  down  at  the  water.  Finally 
he  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bridge,  his  back  turned 
to  the  road,  one  foot  hanging  over,  and  gave  himself  up, 
half  to  an  artist's  pleasure  in  the  scene,  half  to  the  recol 
lection  and  anticipation  that  were  becoming  so  large  a  part 
of  his  life. 

Every  time  he  saw  Rhodope  Trent  she  impressed  herself 
more  and  more  on  his  imagination;  but  he  felt  as  if  at  every 
interview  there  had  been  misunderstanding,  misinterpreta 
tion — as  if  matters  would  never  be  set  right,  so  that  there 
could  be  full  comprehension,  each  of  the  other. 

Yet  he  knew  that  there  were  nearer,  deeper,  truer  bonds 
between  himself  and  Rhodope  than  existed  in  his  careless 
intimacy  with  all  the  other  companions  of  the  valley.  He 
knew  this  instinctively,  certainly,  and  yet  ever  between 
them  was  a  shadow,  a  stumbling-block,  an  intervention. 
Was  this  the  result  of  circumstances  only,  such  as  Mrs. 
Needham's  jealousy  and  Davenant's  hints  ?  or  was  it  his 
own  knowledge  of  what  was  best  for  them  both  ? 

The  river,  which,  when  it  burst  out  from  under  the  close- 
growing  alders  and  overhanging  trees,  rejoiced  with  a  little 
laughing  utterance  to  find  itself  free,  and  chattered  encour 
agement  to  the  ripples  which  were  yet  behind,  tossed  up 
wavelets  in  pure  wantonness  of  pleasure,  and  when  the 
branches  of  brushwood  dipped  into  the  stream,  broke  and 
climbed  over  them  in  teasing  spurts  of  playfulness,  as  if 


WHITE    BIRCHES  107 

to  mock  their  superior  solidity  with  its  affectation  of  de 
fiance. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  looked  up  and  down  the  road. 
With  a  quick  surprise,  a  sudden  acceleration  of  his  heart 
beats,  he  stood  an  instant  motionless,  then  with  long,  even 
stride  he  went  on,  past  the  point  where  the  well-known 
trail  led  up  the  mountain,  past  the  unfrequented  road 
which  turned  off  a  stone's  throw  beyond,  up  to  a  straight 
figure  which  moved  along  lightly,  with  well-poised  head 
and  ill-fitting  drapery. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said  behind  her,  lifting  his  cap. 
Rhodope  turned  instantly  and  smiled  up  into  his  face  with 
swift  illumination. 

"  I  did  not  hear  you,"  she  said,  "  and  neither  did  I  see 
any  one  on  the  road  as  I  came  into  it." 

It  was  as  if  she  were  unconsciously  apologizing  for  not 
being  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  So  you  came  down  that  lonely  road,"  he  answered, 
looking  with  eager  satisfaction  at  her  beautiful  face,  feel 
ing  as  if  it  made  not  much  difference  what  he  said  or  what 
she  said,  now  they  were  alone  together  on  this  sweet  coun 
try  highway.  It  was  as  if  the  shadow  between  them  had 
suddenly  melted  away  in  the  morning  sunlight.  "  I  knew 
you  could  not  have  passed  me ;  I  was  on  the  bridge  below 
there." 

"  Are  you  perhaps  going  in  the  same  direction  with  me  ?" 
she  asked  with  an  innocent  curiosity  that  almost  made  him 
smile,  it  was  so  devoid  of  coquetry.  "  I  am  going  to  Shadow 
Pond,"  she  added,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake. 

"What  luck!"  exclaimed  Medcottwith  unblushing  readi 
ness;  "then  you  will  show  me  the  way.  I  was  half  afraid  I 
might  lose  it.  That  is,  if  you  will  let  me  go  with  you." 
He  spoke  rather  anxiously ;  perhaps  her  shyness  or  some 
unwritten  rule  of  the  valley  etiquette  might  interfere. 


I08  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  company,"  she  said  with  perfect 
simplicity.  "  Jib  was  coming  with  me,  but  he  had  a  new 
book,  and  though  I  might  have  prevailed  on  him  to  leave 
it,  it  would  have  been  just  his  good-nature,"  and  she  looked 
at  him,  smiling.  "  Jib  is  very  good-natured — it  seemed  most 
too  bad  to  ask  him." 

Medcott  inwardly  called  down  Heaven's  blessing  upon 
the  author  of  the  book  which  had  kept  Jib  at  home. 

"  That  brother  of  yours  is  a  very  fine  fellow,"  he  said 
aloud,  by  way  of  compensation.  Rhodope's  eyes  grew 
shinijig. 

"I  think  he  is,"  she  said;  "I  think"— and  then  she 
paused  a  moment — "  I  think  he  might  have  sat  at  the 
Round  Table." 

Medcott  looked  at  her  with  the  same  sensation  of  sur 
prise  that  had  attacked  Davenant  when  she  understood 
his  allusion  to  Don  Quixote.  Moreover,  it  took  a  moment 
to  adapt  himself  to  her  point  of  view.  At  first,  he  was 
rather  staggered  at  the  thought  of  exchanging  Jib's  flannel 
shirt  and  brown  corduroys  for  a  coat  of  mail,  but  as  he 
thought  of  his  handsome  face  and  figure,  and  the  straight 
forward,  serene  nobility  of  his  expression,  he  recognized 
that  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a  man  who  would  appear 
more  knightly  in  the  accoutrements  of  that  period.  More 
over,  he  knew  something  of  the  young  man's  character. 

"  So  he  might,"  he  answered  thoughtfully,  "  and  who 
should  he  have  been  ?" 

"  I  hardly  know,"  she  said. 

"  You  would  not  have  put  me  there  at  all,  I  suppose," 
he  said,  with  a  jealousy  that  amused  him.  She  looked  up 
at  him  as  he  walked  beside  her,  in  the  strong  sunlight  and 
the  sweet  air,  and  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  this  were  a 
world  of  romance  again.  Then  she  reddened  swiftly,  and 
her  eyes  fell,  for  she  thought  of  no  one  but  the  typical  lover, 


WHITE    BIRCHES  109 

handsome,  strong,  and  valiant — but  he,  as  he  looked  down 
at  her,  thought  neither  of  Elaine  nor  of  Guinevere.  Then 
she  broke  into  her  rare  laugh  as  she  answered,  still  flushing, 

"  It  is  late  for  seats  at  the  Round  Table.  Uncle  Denver 
says  what  between  Jib's  African  queens  and  Rhode's  sto 
ries,  the  valley's  gettin'  to  be  a  mighty  unsettled  place." 
Medcott  was  glad  to  see  that  she  was  not  always  grave. 
He  joined  in  her  laugh,  and  King  Arthur  and  his  knights, 
who  had  led  them  both  back  into  the  unreal  past,  were  lost  in 
the  fresh  reality  of  the  present. 

"  Speaking  of  unsettlements,"  said  Medcott,  "  isn't  this 
the  landslide  ?" 

They  stood  at  a  point  high  above  the  valley,  where  be 
fore  them,  in  the  distance,  the  hills  opened,  one  beyond 
the  other,  the  long,  white  streamer  of  a  waterfall  waving 
on  the  rocky  side  of  one  of  them.  Close  by  their  side  the 
mountain  went  down  in  craggy  forest  to  the  lower  levels, 
while  on  the  other  it  went  steeply  up  to  its  summit,  jagged 
with  lofty  pines.  Between  these  precipitate  slopes  wound 
the  road,  covered  just  here  with  a  deep  layer  of  sand  per 
haps  fifty  feet  broad,  which  extended  downwards,  and 
showed  by  the  upturned  roots  of  trees,  the  rough  stones 
and  other  cle'bris  there  half  buried,  as  well  as  by  the  hill 
side  above,  that  it  was  the  result  of  the  breaking-away  of 
masses  of  earth  thereabouts. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  landslide,"  said  Rhodope. 

Slowly  they  moved  through  the  heavy  sand.  There  was 
a  sort  of  excitement  in  it.  The  valley  lay  so  still  and  peace 
ful  before  them,  the  hills  stood  so  grandly  quiet  above  them, 
and  yet  a  quaking  of  the  treacherous  sand,  a  crumbling  of 
the  unsteady  rock,  and  instead  of  the  quietness  would  be 
a  sudden  turmoil,  a  rushing  and  a  destruction.  When  they 
reached  the  other  side,  and  stood  again  on  the  firm  road, 
it  was  as  if  they  had  been  through  a  bit  of  peril  together, 


110  WHITE    BIRCHES 

though  in  all  probability  the  path  had  been  absolutely  safe 
as  far  as  they  were  concerned. 

It  was  not  a  long  walk  to  the  pond.  When  they  came 
in  sight  of  its  guarded  beauty  as  it  lay  silently  between  the 
silent  hills,  Medcott  uttered  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  and  Rhod- 
ope  smiled  as  if  she  had  met  a  friend. 

"  How  delightful  to  be  here  without  all  those  people  who 
were  with  us  the  other  day !"  he  exclaimed.  She  looked  at 
him  in  surprise. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  "  are  you  not  always  glad  to  be  with 
your  friends  ?" 

"  Friends  !"  he  said  contemptuously.  Her  surprise  grew 
puzzled  and  a  little  pained. 

"  I  thought — "  she  began,  and  paused  to  think  further. 

"Yes,  one  friend  of  mine  was  with  us,"  he  amended, 
"  Davenant." 

"  Yes,"  Rhodope  said,  "  but  the  others  ?  Mrs.  Needham," 
she  went  on  with  a  simple  directness—"  you  must  know  her 
very  well  ?" 

Medcott  kicked  a  stone  out  of  the  way.  He  could  not 
express  the  impatience  he  felt. 

"  I  have  known  her  a  month,"  he  answered,  "nearly." 

Rhodope  was  silent  again.  She  had  thought  them  such 
old  friends ;  it  was  a  sudden  pleasure  to  know  that  it  was 
but  the  acquaintance  of  a  summer.  Still — was  this  all  it 
meant  with  these  people — this  whispering  intimacy,  this 
warm  friendliness  of  word  and  manner  ? — just  the  careless, 
irresponsible  acquaintance  of  a  month  ?  With  sudden  mis 
giving  she  realized  how  short  a  time  it  had  been  that  she 
had  known  him ;  barely  four  weeks,  and  she  had  only  seen 
him  half  a  dozen  times.  Was  this  a  careless  intimacy  ? 
She  did  not  believe  it  possible ;  it  was  a  sensation  rather 
than  a  thought,  and  flashed  across  her  consciousness  and 
was  gone. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  III 

"  Will  you  let  me  row  you  across  the  lake  ?"  asked  Med- 
cott,  as  they  passed  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods  which 
grew  close  to  the  water's  edge. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "willingly." 

It  was  new  to  her,  this  formal  courtesy.  Had  she  been 
with  her  usual  companions  they  would  have  climbed  into 
the  boat,  and  either  of  them,  as  the  case  might  be,  have 
taken  the  oars  and  pulled  out  without  further  words.  She 
accepted  it,  however,  with  a  pretty,  natural  dignity,  and  a 
silent  perception  of  something  new  in  the  familiar  scene. 

"You  think  my  friendship  not  much  worth  having?" 
asked  Medcott  suddenly.  They  were  coming  down  a  steep 
little  path  leading  to  the  tiny  landing-place  where  a  boat 
was  moored.  He  was  before  and  below  her,  and  turned  as 
he  spoke,  to  help  her  over  a  jagged  rock.  She  gave  him 
her  hand  mechanically,  and  paused  as  he  paused,  looking 
down  at  him. 

His  warm,  strong  grasp  of  her  fingers,  the  undertone  of 
earnestness  in  his  words,  made  it  difficult  for  her  to  answer 
him. 

"Your  friendship  ?"  she  repeated,  while  the  color  rose  in 
her  cheeks,  though  she  did  not  take  her  eyes  from  his. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  you  think  it  a  poor  thing,  do  you 
not  ?" 

His  friendship— she  tried  hard  to  think  what  it  might 
mean.  Perhaps  this  was  all :  a  courteous  manner,  an  inter 
ested  glance,  low  tones,  a  clasp  of  the  hand — and  nothing 
more.  She  looked  away  from  him,  her  hand  still  in  his,  to 
the  quiet  lake,  to  the  stern  hills  whose  bluff  precipices  no 
adventurous  climber  had  ever  scaled,  to  the  thick  woods 
which  kept  their  secrets  safe,  and  the  deep,  unbroken  peace. 
It  was  so  different  a  thing  from  the  scene  of  which  they 
had  spoken,  where  there  had  been  the  trampling  of  horses, 
echoing  laughter,  and  loud,  careless  voices,  that  the  senti- 


112  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ment  she  had  associated  with  that  scene  seemed  necessarily 
ephemeral,  exaggerated.  For  a  moment  she  caught  an  un 
recognized  glimpse  of  the  contrasts  that  were  constantly 
present  to  Medcott. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  not  know  what  friendship  is,"  she  said 
slowly,  "  I  know  little  of  its  mere  appearance." 

He  felt  a  reproach  in  her  words,  though  she  had  intended 
none. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no  one  would  ever  insult  you  with  the 
offer  of  the  appearance  of  anything." 

Rhodope  moved  forward;  he  let  her  hand  fall  as  she 
passed  before  him,  and  followed  her  down  to  the  miniature 
landing.  In  a  few  moments  they  were  on  the  water,  float 
ing  about  through  its  sunninesses  and  its  stillnesses.  The 
first  were  rarer  than  the  second.  The  little  lake  lay  so  low 
in  the  hollow  of  the  hills  that  they  overshadowed  it,  and 
rose  like  cathedral  walls  on  all  sides,  letting  only  the  light 
from  high  above  shine  down  into  its  deep,  religious  peace. 
There  were  no  cross  rays  and  reflections  of  earth — all  the 
light  that  penetrated  to  the  surface  was  that  coming  straight 
from  heaven,  and  beyond  that  radiance  it  was  tranquil,  cool, 
and  colorless.  Only  their  voices  broke  the  silence  that  Nat 
ure  keeps  within  her  precincts.  Rhodope  sat  in  the  stern, 
her  deep  eyes  softly  radiant,  a  smile,  whose  presence  she 
would  have  found  it  difficult  to  account  for,  touching  her 
grave  lips.  Now  and  then  Medcott  pulled  a  few  strokes 
which  sent  them  closer  in  the  shade  of  the  deep  woods, 
or  out  into  the  warmer  sunlight,  and  then,  lifting  his  oars, 
they  drifted  back  again,  while  he  looked  at  the  hills  and 
at  Rhodope. 

"  I  feel  a  little  as  if  I  were  in  church,"  he  said.  It  was 
not  only  the  effect  of  the  landscape.  He  felt  dimly  a  sense 
of  having  made  confession  when  he  had  stood  and  held 
Rhodope's  hand. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  113 

"  It  always  seems  like  that  to  me,"  she  answered  softly. 
"  It  is  as  if  you  had  come  in  and  shut  the  door." 

Medcott's  thoughts  reverted  again  to  their  past  visit  with 
a  sense  of  exquisite  pleasure  in  the  present. 

The  foolish,  laughing  crowd,  with  their  crudities  of  lunch- 
baskets,  were  gone,  and  there  was  nothing  to  encroach  upon 
Nature's  solemnity,  a  solemnity  sweetly  thrilled  and  perme 
ated  with  a  something  distinctly  warm,  human,  and  personal 
— no  one  but  their  two  selves — and  truth  and  serenity  and 
uprightness. 

"  How  those  people  did  disturb  the  service  the  other 
day,"  he  remarked  lazily.  Rhodope  hastily  glanced  towards 
the  shore  as  if  she  half  expected  to  see  it  inhabited. 

"That  day  was  very  different,"  she  said;  "but  I  guess," 
she  added  thoughtfully,  "  they  liked  it  better  that  way.  I've 
noticed  that  about  the  people  that  come  here — they  don't  like 
our  places  just  as  they  find  them,  but  want  to  make  them 
over  into  more  like  what  they  are  used  to."  She  felt  the 
difference  less  consciously  but  not  less  acutely  than  he.  It 
was  to  her  only  as  if  all  the  pleasure  and  brightness  that 
that  day  had  promised  and  had  somehow  missed  had  gone 
over  from  the  merriment  and  confusion  and  concentrated 
itself  in  this  beautiful  quiet.  As  for  Medcott,  he  knew  well 
enough  that  it  was  because  he  had  his  wish  to-day  which 
had  proved  vain  then — the  exclusive  companionship  of  this 
exceptional  woman. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  '  Pilgrim's  Progress  ?'  "  asked  Rhod 
ope. 

"  Why — er — yes,  of  course — certainly,"  he  answered.  To 
be  sure  he  must  have  read  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  but 
for  the  moment  the  inquiry  puzzled  him,  because  he  could 
not  say  just  when  it  had  been. 

"  Don't  you  like  it  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  soft  light  of  pleas 
ure  in  her  eyes. 


f 
114  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Oh,  very  much,"  he  hastened  to  reply,  convinced  that 
of  course  one  liked  it,  and  with  uncertain  recollection  that 
Macaulay  had  said  it  was  very  fine,  and  a  determination 
not  to  disappoint  that  look  of  pleasure,  anyway;  "but  you 
see — well,  it's  some  time  since  I  read  it." 

He  instantly  recalled  a  large  copy  with  colored  pictures 
he  had  had  as  a  child,  and  resolved  to  look  it  up  when  he 
went  home. 

"Don't  you  remember  when  they  saw  the  mountains 
— Christiana  and  Mercy  and  the  rest  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do,  exactly,"  he  submitted,  adding, 
with  the  diplomacy  of  a  school-boy,  "you  go  on  and  then 
I'll  see." 

"Oh,  it  is  nothing  of  importance,"  answered  Rhodope ; 
"  only  these  mountains  about  here  always  make  me  think 
of  those,  and  I  have  named  them  after  them,  Mount  Marvel 
you  know,  Mount  Innocence,  and  Mount  Chanty." 

"  Which  is  which  ?"  he  asked,  lamentably  conscious  that 
he  could  not  say  anything  that  would  touch  the  heart  of 
the  matter  in  the  way  of  appropriateness,  and  meekly  con 
tenting  himself  with  encouragement. 

"That  is  Mount  Marvel,"  said  Rhodope,  pointing  to  the 
majestic  mass  of  the  hill  that  rose  most  precipitately  from 
the  water.  "  No  one  has  ever  climbed  it,  you  know— not 
even  Uncle  Denver.  And  see  how  dark  the  woods  are — 
and  often  there  are  clouds  on  the  top.  There  is  room  for 
many  marvels  up  there,"  and  her  eyes  searched  for  a  mo 
ment  the  gray  cliffs  and  the  dusky  green  of  the  steep  moun 
tain.  Medcott  was  moved  by  a  vague  impulse  to  make  a 
landing  and  go  up. 

"  And  there  is  Mount  Innocence,"  she  went  on  ;  "  that 
has  more  sunlight  than  the  others,  and  you  can  trace  the 
course  of  several  streams — do  you  see  ?  And  the  woods  are 
not  so  thick,  but  they  are  cool  and  fresh — I  have  climbed 


WHITE    BIRCHES  115 

that  myself — and  they  are  full  of  birds ;  and  that  long,  broad 
mountain  is  Mount  Charity.  Do  you  see  how  it  sweeps 
about  the  others  like  a  mantle,  and  how  it  holds  the  head 
of  the  lake,  and  seems  to  protect  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Medcott,  as  he  followed  her  glance 
from  one  hill  to  the  other,  "  I  see." 

The  fancy  touched  him — it  seemed  so  fitting  a  one  for 
the  place  and  for  her,  this  simple,  strong,  imaginative  wom 
an,  brought  up  in  the  shadow  of  Marvel,  Innocence,  and 
Charity — these  three. 

"  Speaking  of  names,"  he  said  a  little  later,  "  may  I  ask 
how  you  came  to  be  called  Rhodope  ?  That  isn't  out  of — 
er— '  Pilgrim's  Progress,'  is  it  ?" 

If  she  had  told  him  that  Rhodope  and  Apollyon  fought 
with  Master  Faithful  and  Master  By-ends  in  the  Valley  of 
Humiliation  he  would  have  accepted  it  with  a  simple  faith 
which  had  never  before  seemed  a  part  of  his  character. 

"It  was  Uncle  Denver's  choice,"  she  replied  smiling. 

"My  father  and  mother — they  died  when  I  was  very  little 
— told  him  he  could  name  me,  for  he  was  very  fond  of  me 
even  then,  and  he  found  Rhodope  in  a  book,  and  liked  the 
sound  of  it — it's  the  name  of  some  mountain  somewhere, 
isn't  it  ?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  replied  Medcott  vaguely,  who  began 
to  feel  that,  between  literature  and  geography,  his  attain 
ments  were  little  less  than  despicable. 

"  And  he  said  that  I  was  going  to  be  brought  up  among 
mountains,  and  he'd  like  to  have  me  get  as  much  of  them 
as  possible,"  she  concluded. 

"  Henceforth  I  shall  not  hamper  myself  with  derivatives," 
said  Medcott  lightly ;  "  it  has  but  one  association  for  me.  It 
means — you" 

His  voice  took  a  dangerous  intonation  with  his  last 
words,  an  intonation  he  had  not  quite  meant  it  to  have. 


Il6  WHITE     BIRCHES 

If  Rhodope  had  had  a  morsel  of  coquetry,  she  would  not 
have  let  it  escape  her.  As  it  was,  she  felt  it  as  she  felt  ev 
ery  change,  every  impression  of  this  man  ;  she  was  learning, 
almost,  to  take  her  impressions  through  him — but  it  only 
startled  her  a  little.  Naturally,  she  expressed  the  idea  that 
was  farthest  from  her  inclination  and  nearest  to  her  consci 
entiousness — after  the  New  England  fashion. 

"  I  think  I  must  go  back,"  she  said,  "  I  only  came  for  the 
morning." 

Medcott  turned  the  boat  towards  the  landing.  He  would 
have  liked  to  prolong  the  morning  indefinitely,  but  he  did 
not  rebel  even  silently  against  her  decision.  He  was  wise 
enough  to  be  content  with  the  satisfaction  that  had  been 
his.  He  recalled  his  angry  impatience  when  he  had  seen 
Rhodope  at  the  circus.  It  had  seemed  then  as  if  every 
thing  in  the  way  of  physical  disability,  social  difficulties, 
petty  enmities,  and  friendly  prudence  had  conspired  to  keep 
them  apart.  To-day  he  found,  as  we  all  of  us  have  often 
found,  that  while  one  has  slept  the  enemy  has  not  sown 
tares,  but  instead  some  good  angel  has  been  at  work  up 
rooting  and  smoothing  out,  so  that  the  way  seems  suddenly 
fair  and  open.  Florence  Needham  and  society,  Tom  Dave- 
nant  and  criticism,  were  afar  off,  and  he  and  Rhodope 
were  alone,  marking  out  for  themselves  the  path  which  they 
should  follow.  Rhodope  had  brought  some  sandwiches, 
which  in  a  pretty  little  way  she  offered  to  share  with  Med 
cott  as  they  went  through  the  woods.  It  made  her  feel  as 
if  she  knew  him  well  to  laugh  with  him  over  her  bread 
and  butter,  and  have  him  praise  it  as  Tim  might  have  done 
— it  was  as  if  she  had  known  him  always.  And  to  him,  too, 
it  brought  her  nearer,  it  gave  a  touch  of  the  sweet  familiar 
ities  of  ordinary  life  to  the  fineness  of  her  nature. 

A  heavy  wagon  with  four  horses  was  ahead  of  them  as 
they  drew  near  the  landslide  on  the  road  to  the  village. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  Iiy 

"  Isn't  it  a  dangerous  crossing  for  such  a  heavy  load  ?" 
asked  Medcott. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Rhodope,  looking  forward  close 
ly  at  the  horses  and  their  driver,  "but  the  man  knows  all 
about  it — I  know  who  he  is ;  he  has  preferred  to  take  the 
risk  rather  than  delay  by  taking  the  lower  road.  Yes — I 
thought  he  would  get  down  himself." 

The  heavy  cart  was  now  close  to  the  place  in  the  road 
covered  with  the  sand  and  gravel.  As  the  feet  of  the  slowly 
moving  leaders  struck  it  the  driver  climbed  down  and  walked 
a  little  ahead.  Evidently  the  familiarity  of  the  danger  made 
him  careless  of  it,  and  in  fact  the  ground  looked  firm  and 
solid  enough  as  the  horses  made  their  way  over  it.  Med 
cott  and  Rhodope  stopped  at  some  little  distance  and 
watched  their  progress. 

"  Come  on  !"  shouted  the  man  to  his  animals,  and  his 
voice  rang  out  in  the  peaceful  air  as  if  it  were  the  only  hu 
man  element  in  it.  The  gravel  creaked  under  the  stout 
wheels,  and  the  horses  kicked  the  pebble  and  sand  before 
them. 

"He  has  taken  a  good  deal  of  a  risk,"  said  Medcott, 
"  if  what  the  people  about  here  say  is  true." 

"  Uncle  Denver  says  John  Dibson  had  always  rather  risk 
his  life  than  tire  his  limb  by  a  little  extra  work,"  said  Rhod 
ope.  "  There  is  danger — it  is  true  enough." 

The  wagon  had  reached  the  farther  limit  of  the  slide ; 
the  driver  already  stood  on.  firm  ground  and  was  cracking 
his  whip  at  the  straining  animals.  They  watched  breath 
lessly  as  the  horses — the  front  wheels — the  hind  wheels — 
passed  slowly  and  safely  beyond  the  line — when  Rhodope 
drew  a  little,  quick  breath  of  relief,  and  they  both  laughed 
at  their  own  anxiety.  A  pebble  or  two  rolled  down ;  the 
driver  climbed  back  to  his  seat,  and  put  on  his  break  for 
the  descent  that  followed,  and  the  other  two  went  on  their 


Il8  WHITE    BIRCHES 

way.  As  they  in  turn  came  to  the  place  of  danger,  he  said, 
smiling, 

"I  fancy  our  weight  will  not  convulse  Nature  if  she 
will  bear  an  unruffled  brow  in  the  presence  of  a  coach  and 
four." 

"  No,"  answered  Rhodope,  moving  lightly  on,  "  I  guess 
we  are  safe  enough." 

But  whether  it  were  that  the  mass  of  the  de'bris  had  been 
loosened,  or  whether  it  were  that  Nature's  time  had  come 
to  push  this  little  handful  of  rocks  and  earth  over  this  hill 
side  of  hers — for  one  reason  or  another,  just  as  they  reached 
the  farther  limit  where  the  deep  ruts  of  the  cart-wheels 
grew  less  marked  on  the  harder  road,  there  was  a  slight 
rattle,  an  ominous  roar,  a  crashing  and  breaking,  and  Med- 
cott,  feeling  the  ground  move  beneath  his  feet,  instinctively 
caught  Rhodope  in  one  arm,  and,  throwing  the  other  about 
a  tree  that  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  swung  them  both 
out  of  the  path  of  the  downfall  of  stones  and  earth.  If  he 
had  not  been  at  the  very  edge  of  the  peril  he  could  not  so 
have  escaped  it ;  but  as  it  was,  they  were  in  safety,  and  stood 
in  silence  watching  the  mass  tumble  into  the  valley  below. 
It  was  not  an  avalanche,  but  enough  power  had  suddenly 
been  cast  loose  to  have  hurled  them  both  down  that  rough 
and  craggy  hillside,  and  covered  them  with  stifling  stones 
and  dust.  Medcott  still  had  his  arm  around  Rhodope  as 
she,  unconscious,  save  of  their  narrow  escape,  gazed  with 
startled  eyes  at  the  devastation.  He  looked  at  the  soft 
lines  of  her  cheek  and  throat,  the  turn  of  the  eyelashes  up 
from  the  lowered  lids,  the  masses  of  hair,  that  almost  touched 
his  lips,  as  they  clustered  about  her  half-averted  head,  and 
he  thought  of  how  cut  and  bruised  that  beauty  might  have 
been,  and  shuddered. 

"  Thank  God,  you  are  safe !"  he  exclaimed. 

"Thank  God,  we  are  both  safe!"  she  said.     Then  the 


WHITE    BIRCHES  1 19 

swift  waves  of  color  breaking  over  her  face,  she  drew  her 
self  away  from  him,  adding  softly* 

"  And  thank  you  for  doing  the  only  thing  that  could  have 
saved  me." 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  His  gaze  had  not  left 
her  face,  raised  now  to  his.  It  had  all  taken  place  so  quickly. 
The  dust  of  the  slide  was  settling  again ;  the  reverberation 
of  its  crash  had  entirely  ceased,  the  valley  lay  below  them 
as  serene  as  it  had  ever  been,  but  in  that  one  brief  moment 
these  two  had  been  together  in  danger,  and  had  come  out 
of  it — still  together. 

They  could  not  either  of  them  quite  forget.  But  Med- 
cott  did  not  care  to  exaggerate  any  such  element  of  inten 
sity. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  did  the  only  thing,"  he  said  lightly, 
"  probably  there  were  a  dozen  other  things  we  could  have 
done.  We  might  have  gone  part  of  the  way,  you  know, 
and  clung  pale  and  bruised,  but  still  alive,  to  a  frail  tree,  and 
I  would  have  rescued  you  with  pomp  and  circumstance." 

She  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  speak.  She  could  not  an 
swer  him  in  the  same  tone.  She  was  deficient  in  the  art 
which  turns  one's  deepest  feelings  into  light  appropriate 
ness,  and  her  feelings,  as  well  as  deep,  were  complex.  So 
they  went  on  together,  both  conscious  that  somehow  a  rush 
of  emotion  had  come  into  their  lives  which  had  not  died 
away  with  the  rattling  of  the  last  pebble  and  the  final  echo 
among  the  hills. 


CHAPTER   X 
"  He's  gentle,  never  schooled  and  yet  learned,  full  of  noble  device." 

"  The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright, 
How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown, 

One  star  its  chrysolite  ! 
We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well : 
The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell.  "^ 

IT  was  late  afternoon,  the  shadows'  were  long  in  the  vil 
lage  street,  the  legend  of  Ivory  Soap  which  Medcott  never 
saw  nowadays  without  a  mental  transition  to  a  cool  wood 
and  a  sensation  of  pain,  twinkled  in  the  window  with  all 
its  accustomed  hilarity.  Outside  stood  General  Jim  Down 
ing,  a  man  of  thirty  odd,  and  the  proprietor  of  the  store, 
Abijah  Stetson.  They  called  Downing  the  General,  not 
from  the  love  of  military  title,  considered  by  transatlantic 
writers  to  be  an  integral  part  of  the  American  character, 
but  from  what  is  a  much  dearer  national  characteristic, 
the  love  of  incongruity.  Jim  Downing  never  went  any 
where  or  did  anything,  and  yet  he  always  spoke  as  a  born 
leader  of  men ;  so  they  called  him  General,  with  an  irony 
which  he  appreciated,  but  consistently  ignored.  Abijah  Stet 
son  was  older  and  much  stouter.  His  flannel  shirt  pre 
sented  such  wide  acres  of  unoccupied  space  that  the  sus 
penders  which  made  their  precarious  way  over  it  seemed 
discouraged  from  the  outset. 

"  No,  we  'ain't  got  any  butter,"  Abijah  was  saying  to  a 


WHITE    BIRCHES  121 

woman  with  a  shawl  over  her  head.  "No,  I  dunno'  as  we 
shall  have  any,  not  to  sell.  Perhaps  you  can  get  a  pound 
over  to  Gapp's ;  they  churned  yesterday."  The  woman 
passed  on,  and  Stetson  settled  his  large  shoulders  more 
firmly  against  the  doorpost  with  the  fine  indifference  to  the 
possibilities  of  trade  evinced  by  merchants  whom  no  dan 
ger  of  competition  disturbs,  and  whose  social  position  does 
not  at  all  depend  upon  their  business  success. 

"  Yes,  that's  Marcella  French's  gal,"  he  went  on,  taking 
up  the  conversation  where  it  had  been  interrupted,  "  she 
that  was  Marcella  Brown.  She  turned  up  over  here  to 
North  Lane  the  day  of  the  circus,  and  Marcella  she  kinder 
talked  with  some  of  the  folks  and  seemed  to  hanker  after 
staying  in  the  valley  a  bit,  so  she  and  the  gal  are  putting  up 
over  to  Dust's." 

Jim  Downing  shifted  his  quid  of  tobacco  and  nodded. 

"  I  didn't  get  over  to  that  circus,"  he  observed  thoughtfully. 

"  I  thought  you  was  makin'  up  a  load  ?" 

"Wai,  so  I  was;  but  what  with  one  thing  and  another 
we  didn't  get  off,"  replied  Jim  with  his  usual  air  of  mild 
surprise  at  the  failure  of  his  plans. 

"  Wai,  General,"  said  Abijah,  "  I  guess  you'll  get  off  one 
time  when  you've  kinder  calculated  on  goin',  and  that'll  be 
when  they  come  after  you  with  the  hearse." 

"  Mebbe,"  replied  Jim,  not  caring  to  resent  any  satirical 
implication  that  might  be  in  the  grim  suggestion. 

"  There  she  comes  now,"  said  Abijah,  looking  up  the 
straggling  street. 

Both  men  watched  Elizabeth  French's  slight  figure  as  she 
came  buoyantly  along  the  road.  There  was  this  suggestion 
of  buoyancy  in  all  her  movements.  She  was  not  tall,  but 
she  held  herself  straight  as  an  arrow,  and  her  coronet  of 
short  black  curls,  her  laughing  dark  eyes,  and  her  brilliant 
color  made  her  a  very  striking  young  person. 


122  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Stetson,"  she  said,  pausing  in  front 
of  the  store  and  looking  up  at  the  two  men  with  an  upward 
slant  of  her  chin  and  a  downward  slant  of  the  eyelashes 
she  lowered  to  shield  her  eyes  from  the  level  rays  of  the 
westward  sun.  Then  she  hesitated  a  moment.  She  was 
not  quite  used  to  the  place  yet,  and  it  was  not  her  idea  of 
shopping  to  question  the  proprietor  of  the  bazaar  while  he 
took  his  ease  on  a  three-legged  stool  outside.  Her  sau- 
ciness  had  had  its  immediate  effect  on  the  General.  His 
inefficiency  fell  an  easy  prey  to  the  striking  in  female  beauty. 
He  involuntarily  straightened  himself,  immediately  aban 
doning  the  support  of  the  dusty  wall,  and  adopted  something 
that  might  be  considered  as  an  attitude  of  respectful  atten 
tion.  But  Stetson  was  less  impressible.  In  his  line  of 
business  he  was  exposed  to  so  many  visits  from  pretty  girls, 
indigenous  and  exotic  ;  and  they  so  seldom  knew  what  they 
wanted,  and  when  they  did,  so  often  showed  a  disposition 
to  subordinate  it  to  the  pleasure  of  conversation  with  other 
customers,  that  he  never  allowed  his  interest  to  become 
active. 

"  A'ternoon,"  he  replied,  as  one  who  would  say  nothing 
he  might  be  sorry  for. 

"  Can  I  get  some  dark-green  dress-braid  here  ?"  inquired 
Elizabeth. 

"I  guess  you  can  get  it  here  if  you  can  anywheres  in  the 
village,"  answered  Stetson  immovably. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Elizabeth  with  much  tact.  There 
was  a  pause.  In  the  face  of  her  pretty  manner  and  her 
charming  hesitation,  the  General  felt  his  companion  pro- 
vokingly  unresponsive,  and  cleared  his  throat  and  hit  a 
packing-box  with  his  foot,  to  imply  that  he  might  feel  a  de 
sire  to  say  something  himself  if  this  went  on  much  longer. 

"  Wai,"  said  Stetson,  "  I  dunno'  as  I've  got  any  dress-braid 
at  all." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  123 

"  Oh,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  never  mind,  then,"  and  she  turned 
to  go,  half  suspicious  that  he  was  chaffing  her. 

"  I  dunno'  but  I  got  some  dark  red,"  said  Stetson. 
"  Dark  red  won't  do  you,  will  it  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  don't  quite  think  it  will." 

"  Wai,"  said  the  enterprising  Stetson,  "  I'll  go  in  and  see." 

This  was  a  relief  to  the  feelings  of  the  General,  who 
couldn't  bear  to  see  even  the  whims  of  such  a  beauty  in  a 
way  to  be  disregarded.  As  Elizabeth  followed  Stetson  in 
side,  he  strolled  in  after  them,  and  took  up  his  station  on 
the  edge  of  an  empty  barrel  with  careless  but  none  the  less 
actual  interest  in  the  transaction.  Inside  there  was  the 
usual  variety  of  wares  :  dried  peaches,  brown  calico,  and 
several  antique  chocolate  mice  being  among  the  most  prom 
inent.  It  smelled  chiefly  of  what  might  be  string.  Stetson 
took  down  a  box  labelled  "  Peppermint  Lozenges,"  but  that 
only  held  several  rolls  of  tape ;  then  he  took  down  a  box 
labelled  "  5  Ibs.  Candles,"  but  that  only  held  darning-cot 
ton  ;  at  last  he  found  a  box  labelled  "  Gumdrops,"  and  that 
held  the  dress-braid.  He  set  it  down  before  Elizabeth  with 
an  air  that  suggested  she  might  take  it  or  leave  it,  and  went 
to  the  other  side  of  the  store  and  measured  out  two  quarts 
of  split  peas  for  some  mysterious  but  unforgotten  patron. 
Having  twisted  them  up  in  a  paper  bag,  being  watched  si 
lently  by  the  General  with  fascinated  eyes  which  would 
much  prefer  to  have  watched  Elizabeth,  but  were  withheld 
through  embarrassment,  he  returned  and  stood  opposite  to 
her. 

"  Got  some  new  mackerel,"  he  said  to  the  General,  over 
her  head. 

"  Hev  ?"  said  the  General,  with  fictitious  interest.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  I  will  take  these,"  said  Elizabeth.  A  shadow  shut  off 
part  of  the  sunlight  from  the  door  just  behind  her. 


124  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  H'are  you,  Jib  ?"  said  the  General. 

"  H'are  you,  Jib  ?"  said  Mr.  Stetson,  nodding  in  dignified 
greeting. 

Elizabeth  did  not  turn,  but  she  dropped  one  piece  of 
dress-braid  and  picked  up  another  just  like  it  and  looked 
at  it  earnestly  while  Jib  returned  the  salutations.  Jib  never 
wasted  time  in  circumlocution.  He  walked  straight  up  to 
the  counter  where  she  stood. 

•"  Well,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  he  said.  Elizabeth  turned  her 
little  curly  head  sidewise,  and  glanced  up  at  him  with  a 
suppressed  smile. 

"  Oh,  is  that  you  ?"  she  said.     "  How  do  you  do  ?" 

Jib  leaned  on  the  small  show-case,  beneath  the  glass  of 
which  the,  chocolate  mice  gazed  thoughtfully,  almost  hope 
fully,  at  the  two  sticks  of  licorice  and  a  bunch  of  white 
elastic,  and,  with  an  entire  indifference  to  shopping,  looked 
down  smiling  at  Elizabeth.  She  looked  away  from  him  to 
the  dress-braid,  and  again  to  Mr.  Stetson. 

"  I'll  take  four  pieces  of  this,  please." 

Mr.  Stetson  hesitated,  and  poked  about  in  the  peppermint 
lozenge-box  doubtfully. 

"  I  guess  that's  all  there  is,  ain't  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Elizabeth,  "that's  all." 

"  Couldn't  get  along  with  two,  could  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could,"  she  replied,  in  some  embarrass 
ment. 

"  Wai,"  he  said,  unwillingly,  "  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  let 
you  have  it.  First  thing  I  know  somebody  else  Ml  be  in  after 
some.  It  keeps  one  handlin'  it  all  the  time  when  I  hev  to 
get  a  new  lot  of  such  things.  I'd  ruther  you'd  'a'  left  a 
piece." 

Elizabeth  was  unused  to  these  economies  of  trade,  and 
so  smiled  with  some  perplexity.  Stetson,  seeing  that  she 
did  not  change  her  mind,  wrapped  it  up  and  made  change 


WHITE   BIRCHES  125 

for  her  with  an  appearance  of  high-minded  protest,  while 
Elizabeth  still  ignored  Jib's  glance  and  gazed  interestedly  at 
a  highly  colored  portrait  of  a  child  of  a  truly  abnormal  health- 
fulness,  produced  by  the  exclusive  use  of  a  certain  cereal. 
When  he  had  almost  forgotten  to  expect  her  to  look  at  him, 
and  was  studying  her  quite  at  his  ease,  she  flashed  her  eyes 
back  at  him. 

"  Did  you  come  to  shop,  too  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Jib,  not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  "  I  came  in 
because  you  were  here." 

"  Ah,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  suspicion  of  a  smile  at  the 
corners  of  her  mouth, "  it's  almost  a  pity  you  gave  yourself 
the  trouble — I'm  not  going  to  stay  very  long.  Thank  you," 
she  said  to  Mr.  Stetson  as  she  picked  up  her  change. 

"  You'll  be  staying  just  about  as  long  as  I  calculate  to," 
said  Jib  easily  as  they  went  out  together.  The  General 
watched  them  absorbedly.  He  even  nearly  upset  the  bar 
rel,  leaning  forward  to  watch  them  across  the  street. 
Abijah,  however,  had  seen  too  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  to 
waste  much  thought  on  it.  He  slowly  replaced  the  pepper 
mint,  candle,  and  gumdrop  boxes,  set  the  bag  of  split  peas 
in  a  prominent  position  on  the  counter,  and  sauntered  out 
side  again,  whither  the  General  immediately  followed  him 
with  that  somewhat  slavish  adherence  which  was  part  of  his 
character. 

Jib  Trent,  according  to  Uncle  Denver,  had  signed  con 
siderable  of  a  contract  when  he  fell  in  love  with  Elizabeth 
French.  The  magnitude  of  the  undertaking,  however,  im 
pressed  him  not  at  all,  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  gave 
not  a  thought  to  its  possibilities.  Men  who  are  building 
towers  and  going  into  battle  sit  down  and  count  the  cost  of 
it  as  far  as  their  limitations  admit,  if  they  are  wise,  to  be 
sure ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  making  a  good 
start  and  being  unhandicapped  by  avoidable  drawbacks. 


126  WHITE   BIRCHES 

Nobody  really  thinks  that  he  has  counted  it  all ;  and  those 
who  build  the  best  towers  and  fight  the  best  battles  are 
those  who  grapple  best  with  the  unforeseen.  Jib  Trent  was 
conscious  of  nothing  except  a  never-failing  impulse  to  seek 
the  society  of  Elizabeth  French.  His  favorite  books  were 
neglected.  Tim  recommended  "  That  Frenchman  "  in  vain. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Jim  found  fact  more  absorbing 
than  fiction.  Upon  Elizabeth  this  devotion  had  a  not  un 
common  effect.  It  was  something  to  amuse  one — even  to 
interest  one — something  of  a  fashion  quite  new  ;  but  owing 
to  the  fact  that  it  was  so  readily  come  at,  something  not  to 
be  superlatively  valued.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who 
need  no  artificial  incitements,  no  cynical  experiences,  no 
envious  emulations  to  develop  a  latent  sense  of  coquetry. 
She  had  been  sent  to  a  good  school,  and  was  by  no  means 
ignorant.  She  did  not  often  travel  under  the  canvas  wing  of 
the  circus ;  it  was  only  on  short,  out-of-season  tours  like 
this  last  that  French  was  accompanied  by  his  wife  and 
daughter.  Nicholas  French  was  an  unusual  man  in  some 
respects.  He  had  associated  all  his  life  with  horses  with 
out  being  brutalized  thereby ;  he  had  a  genuine  love  for 
animals  which  extended  even  to  the  vicious  and  the  outcast. 
He  was  still  in  love  with  the  woman  who  had  run  away  from 
her  home  to  marry  him,  twenty  years  ago,  and  proud  of  the 
daughter  who  was  such  a  credit  to  them  both.  He  had 
made  money  enough  to  live  in  a  less  precarious  style,  but 
as  it  is  hard  for  a  Cromwell  to  lay  aside  his  sword,  so  is  it 
hard  for  a  man  or  woman,  much  of  whose  life  has  been  lived 
within  the  circus  ring,  to  return  to  a  respectable  but  monot 
onous  side  street.  Nicholas  French  would  have  been  un 
happy  without  a  horse,  would  have  felt  bereft  of  luxury 
without  a  trick  pony,  and  would  have  experienced  a  genuine 
deprivation  in  the  loss  of  the  society  of  a  wild-cat.  Mar- 
cella,  though  at  first  her  interest  had  been  purely  vicarious, 


WHITE   BIRCHES  127 

had  also  become  fond  of  the  distinctive  features  of  their 
life.  The  same  impulsive  love  of  the  romantic  which  had 
led  her  to  throw  aside  her  comfortable  country  home  for 
the  vicissitudes  of  one  with  a  ringmaster,  led  her  to  enjoy 
the  novelties,  the  excitements,  the  very  makeshifts  of  the 
business.  So  Nicholas,  without  being  any  longer  the  slave 
of  his  fortunes,  was  generally  doing  something  or  other  in 
the  circus  line,  and  Elizabeth,  though  carefully  shielded, 
with  what  might  seem  unusual  discretion,  from  that  which 
could  easily  have  proved  harmful  in  the  life,  picked  up,  to 
gether  with  her  school  duties,  a  good  deal  of  information 
and  experience  which  made  her  more  interesting  than  most 
girls  of  eighteen,  whose  conventional  advantages  had  been 
greater.  In  fact,  she  was  exceptional  enough  in  her  char 
acter  and  training  to  prevent  the  veil  of  romance  and  mag 
nificence  with  which  Jib  had  enveloped  her  from  the  first 
from  being  drawn  aside  by  the  hand  of  more  familiar  ac 
quaintance,  and  revealing  only  the  dulness  of  the  common 
place. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  Elizabeth,  demurely,  as 
they  turned  up  the  village  street. 

"  Let's  go  up  on  the  mound,"  replied  Jib ;  "there  is  time 
enough  before  supper." 

His  assumption  that  wherever  he  went,  she  was  going 
too,  amused  Elizabeth,  but  did  not  displease  her. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  demurred ;  "  I  expected 
to  take  this  dress-braid  home  to  mother." 

"  I  guess  your  mother  isn't  in  any  hurry,"  said  Jib  with 
masculine  incredulity  concerning  the  imperative  importance 
of  dress-braid  ;  "  please  come,  Elizabeth." 

Elizabeth  had  only  been  waiting  for  that  look  of  anxiety 
in  those  handsome  blue  eyes,  and  she  went  on  with  him 
readily  enough.  The  mound  was  a  mild  sort  of  bluff  about 
half  a  mile  long,  in  the  middle  of  the  valley,  not  high 


128  WHITE    BIRCHES 

enough  to  be  called  a  hill  about  here,  but  reached  by  a 
steep  little  ascent,  and  forming  a  pretty  place  of  lookout. 

It  was  crossed  by  a  fence  or  two,  crossed  in  their  turn  by 
several  stiles,  and  was  a  favorite  walk  for  those  who  found 
the  village  street  too  densely  populated  and  who  yet  did 
not  care  to  seek  greater  and  more  distant  seclusion. 

"  Mother  is  ever  so  much  pleased  to  see  your  Uncle 
Denver  again,"  said  Elizabeth,  as  they  passed  beyond  the 
scattered  houses  into  the  solitude  of  the  country  road. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  Uncle  Denver  so  lightened 
up  as  since  your  mother  and  you  came  here,"  replied  Jib ; 
"  he  talks  more  about  it  than  he  does  about  most  things. 
Not  but  what  he's  always  pretty  noticing — but  this  seems 
more  like  real  pleasure  to  him." 

"  Most  people  like  mother,"  said  Elizabeth  with  satisfac 
tion. 

"  I  guess  Uncle  Denver  used  to  love  your  mother,"  went 
on  Jib  simply.  "  He  hasn't  ever  said  so,  but  I've  mistrusted 
he  did.  He  don't  seem  noways  ashamed  of  it.  I  wouldn't 
ever  be  ashamed  of  loving  a  woman  like  —  like  her,"  he 
added,  with  a  shy  glance  at  his  companion,  who  colored  a 
little  and  smiled,  which  encouraged  him  to  proceed. 

"  All  the  men  that  I've  ever  read  of  that  were  worth  any 
thing  were  in  love  with  somebody." 

"  I  guess  it  don't  always  depend  on  their  being  worth 
anything,  though." 

"  No,"  answered  Jib,  momentarily  chilled,  "  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  does.  But  then  you  don't  want  to  read  about  the 
other  kind,  you  know  " — a  remark,  by  the  way,  showing 
small  literary  discrimination — "  and  all  those  who  fight  and 
ride  and  get  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy — they  always  love 
somebody." 

"  Well,  if  I  loved  anybody  " —  she  spoke  with  a  charming 
disregard  of  any  personal  application — "  I  should  want  him 


WHITE    BIRCHES  1 29 

to  do  something  for  me  besides  fight  and  ride  and  get  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy." 

"  I  guess  he  wouldn't  do  that  any  more  than  he  could 
help,"  said  Jib  lazily ;  "  he'd  rather  stay  with  you." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  ridiculous,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  shake  of 
her  curly  head,  immediately  followed  by  a  smiling  salutation 
to  a  good-looking  young  fellow  in  mountain  costume  who 
passed  them  on  the  road. 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Jib. 

"  Oh,  he  stays  over  to  Dust's,"  answered  Elizabeth  with 
an  air  of  marked  indifference.  "  He's  from  New  York — I've 
talked  with  him  some." 

Jib  was  not  rendered  in  the  least  uneasy  by  this  incident, 
but  it  changed  the  current  of  their  conversation. 

"  You've  seen  a  good  many  people,  first  and  last,  haven't 
you  ?"  he  observed  as  they  reached  the  first  stile.  Elizabeth 
perched  herself  on  the  top  before  she  replied,  while  he  stood 
leaning  against  the  post  beside  her. 

"  Well,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I  suppose  I  have  seen  a  good 
many  people — seen  them,  you  know.  I  haven't  known  very 
many.  And  a  good  many  animals  too,"  she  added,  without 
cynical  intention. 

"  And  you've  seen  cities,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I've  seen  cities  too.     Haven't  you  ever  ?" 

"  Never,"  answered  Jib  unblushingly.  It  was  impossible 
for  her  not  to  feel  a  little  superior,  but  she  answered  truth 
fully  enough, 

"  The  country  is  a  deal  prettier — though  I  don't  know  as 
I'd  rather  always  live  in  it.  But  my !  it's  a  great  deal  pret 
tier.  Mother  always  said  it  was,  too." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I'd  always  rather  live  in  the  country 
either,"  said  Jib,  gazing  up  into  her  pretty  face. 

He  was  leaning  forward,  his  arms  on  the  fence,  precisely 
as  he  had  been  when  she  first  met  his  eyes  the  day  of  the 
9 


130  WHITE    BIRCHES 

circus  procession.     He  did  not  think  of  it  at  all,  but  she 
did. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  will.  I  mean  some  time  to  go  where 
things  are  done  such  as  we  were  speaking  of  along  back." 

There  was  a  pause.  Elizabeth  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and 
she  gave  her  head  a  little  turn  and  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  herald  ?"  asked  Jib. 

"  A  newspaper,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  No,  a  herald — a  man." 

Elizabeth's  sense  of  urban  superiority  vanished  suddenly. 

"  No,"  she  said.  A  moment  of  unconscious  cerebration 
connected  heralds  with  sandwich-men,  but  she  repeated, 
"  No,  I  never  did.  Why  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  was  only  thinking,"  and  he  slipped 
into  silence  a  moment.  This  silence  was  so  full  of  her  and 
he  was  so  ignorant  of  women  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
to  tell  her  that  he  was  thinking  of  her.  She  grew  a  little 
impatient  of  his  abstraction.  She  had  become  accustomed 
to  his  devotion,  and  with  true  femininity  felt  aggrieved  by 
the  least  lucid  interval.  She  swung  her  hat  by  its  string, 
looked  around  her,  down  to  the  village  street,  invisible  but 
not  entirely  inaudible,  and  finally  half  rose  to  go. 

"  What  would  you  want  your  lover  to  do  ?"  inquired  Jib 
suddenly,  "  to  show  that  he  loved  you  ?" 

Elizabeth  abandoned  temporarily  her  intention  of  going 
home.  The  seriousness  of  the  question  was  somewhat  dis 
concerting,  backed  up  as  it  was  by  the  good  looks  and  im 
mediate  proximity  of  the  questioner.  It  was  difficult  for 
little  Elizabeth  to  maintain  the  utterly  impersonal.  The 
utterly  impersonal  is  a  product  of  the  higher  civilization. 

"  What  would  I  want  my  lover  to  do  ?"  she  repeated  with 
red  cheeks  and  a  would-be  defiance  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Jib,  seriously.  "  You  have  said  what 
you  didn't  want  him  to  do." 


WHITE   BIRCHES  131 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed,  "  fighting  and  getting  into  the 
hands  of  the  enemy.  Well,  you  know  that  wouldn't  be  real 
satisfying." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Jib  with  imperturbable  directness. 
"  What  would  you  want  him  to  do  ?" 

A  girl's  first  genuine  lover  is  a  disturbing  element,  even 
when  Nature  has  provided  a  disposition  quick  to  adapt 
itself  to  such  disturbances.  Elizabeth  had  all  her  sex's 
aversion  for  direct  questions  and  direct  answers. 

"  Oh,  so  many  things,"  she  said  lightly,  standing  up  and 
stepping  down  the  first  step  of  the  stile.  "  It  would  take 
too  long  to  tell  and  it's  too  late  to  begin." 

He  stood  silently  where  he  barred  her  way  down,  and  she 
waited.  He  was  not  yet  experienced  lover  enough  to  be 
tyrannical,  or  he  might  have  taken  advantage  of  this  cir 
cumstance  to  make  her  explain  herself.  Perhaps  Elizabeth 
half  fancied  that  he  would.  Instead  he  moved  one  side  as 
he  pleaded,  "  Can't  you  tell  me  one  thing  ?" 

His  prompt  submission  emboldened  her  coquetry  —  it 
could  not  throw  away  such  opportunities. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  audacious  seriousness,  looking  down 
at  him,  "  I  can  tell  you  one  thing.  I  would  ask  him  to  help 
me  down  off.  the  stile  and  take  me  home." 

The  two  figures  disappeared  through  the  tall  meadow- 
grass,  the  soft,  late  twilight  settled  down  into  the  valley 
and  brightened  towards  the  hill-tops.  The  wood-thrushes 
called  back  and  forth  to  each  other  in  the  stillness.  The 
distant  murmur  of  the  streams  assumed  an  importance  it  had 
lacked  when  human  voices  were  at  hand.  The  world  was 
afar  off,  the  earth  with  her  voices  spoke  to  those  who  could 
hear. 

From  the  other  side  of  the  fence  came  a  soft,  steady 
rustle  in  the  dry,  feathered  grasses  and  clinging  vines  of  the 
field.  It  was  too  measured  a  sound  to  be  the  stir  of  the 


132  WHITE   BIRCHES 

wind  which  was  breathing  across  the  valley.  It  was  Rhod- 
ope's  step,  who,  after  the  early  tea  at  the  cottage,  almost 
always  strayed  away  from  its  open  door,  over  the  warm 
grass  to  this  particular  stile.  To-night  the  air  was  full  of 
expectancy,  the  quietness  of  the  hour  was  thrilled  with  un 
quiet  possibilities.  These  were  days  when  things  happened 
— much  had  happened  yesterday — which  things  were  not  to 
be  forgotten  and  which  filled  such  hours  as  this  with  re 
membering  as  well  as  anticipation.  She  climbed  up  the 
stile  and  sat  where  Elizabeth  had  perched  an  hour  before, 
clasping  her  hands  about  her  knees  and  gazing  over  to  the 
dark  hillside  whence  rang  the  voices  of  the  thrushes.  In 
the  opalescent  green  of  the  sky  floated  pink  snatches  of 
cloud,  both  of  which  blended  into  pearl  farther  away.  Rhod- 
ope  thought  of  Elizabeth  and  Jib ;  she  had  seen  them 
walking  together,  from  the  cottage  window,  and  Jib  had 
come  home  to  tea  with  a  gleaming  illumination  in  his  steady 
gray  eyes.  She  was  much  interested  in  what  it  might  mean. 
She  was  deeply  devoted  to  her  brother,  and  she  was  fasci 
nated  by  this  new,  brilliant  Elizabeth,  whom  she  could  not  in 
the  least  understand.  She  speculated  about  their  relations 
with  her  eyes  on  the  hills,  and  was  glad  and  was  sorry — and 
was  conscious  that,  absorbing  as  it  was,  it  was  not  this  that 
gave  its  peculiar  meaning  to  the  August  evening ;  that  back 
of  all  this  speculation  was  something  more  absorbing  still. 
Up,  over  the  edge  of  the  hill  that  separated  the  mound  from 
the  plain,  came  Medcott.  She  turned  her  head  and  saw 
him,  and  immediately  all  the  unrest  went  out  of  the  night 
and  all  speculation  ceased,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait  quietly  while  he  came  straight  towards  her. 

"  I  hoped  to  find  you,"  he  said,  as  he  reached  the  stile. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  she  answered;  "  it  is  so  beautiful 
here." 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful,"  he  assented,  as  his  glance  went 


WHITE   BIRCHES  133 

over  the  tinted  valley  and  back  again  to  the  girl  above  him, 
whose  figure  and  pure  profile  were  outlined  clearly  against 
the  sky  behind  her,  as  she  looked  away  from  him. 

"  I  have  been  wondering  what  it  is  that  the  thrushes  say," 
she  said  after  a  moment.  "  It  is  something  glad,  and  yet — 
it  is  not  all  glad.  It  is  triumphant,  but  it  is  not — exulting. 
I  guess  you  can  tell  better  than  I,"  she  concluded.  Med- 
cott  leaned  his  head  on  his  arms  on  the  stile  and  listened. 
They  were  both  silent,  waiting,  and  it  was  after  a  longer  in 
terval  than  usual  that  a  hidden  bird  uttered  its  few  notes. 
Down  in  the  country  road  a  heavy  wagon  creaked  slowly 
by,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  tide  of  travel  was  importunate. 
The  world  seemed  to  belong  to  them  and  not  to  feverish 
travellers.  But  alas  !  it  did  not.  The  song  of  the  wood- 
thrush  broke  forth  again. 

"  It  is  '  Why  ?  why  ?  why  ?'  "  said  Medcott  sighing. 

"I  think  it  is  'Yes,  yes,  yes',"  said  Rhodope. 

The  colors  were  fading  out  of  the  sky ;  the  distant  peaks 
were  faintly  blue  and  shadowy,  those  near  at  hand  were 
dark  and  massive.  The  sweep  of  ripened  grass  about  them 
grew  ghostly  instead  of  golden.  Over  the  top  of  Mystery 
Mountain  appeared  a  little  bit  of  a  moon.  It  looked  so 
small  and  far  off,  and  the  top  of  the  mountain  was  so  black 
just  under  it  that  they  seemed  to  have  a  little  world  of  their 
own  up  there  to  illumine  and  to  reflect — and  all  they  could 
do,  too — without  bothering  about  the  lowlands.  Medcott 
banished  the  questioning  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  ac 
tuality.  He  talked  of  what  was  nearest  to  him,  he  brought 
certain  of  his  feelings  and  aims  to  the  judgment  bar  of  her 
intuitions.  He  let  what  was  best  in  him  speak,  and  he  lis 
tened  to  what  she  said  with  a  certain  reverence  mingled 
with  his  tenderness.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  loved  her, 
though  the  words  were  very  near  his  lips  more  than  once, 
she  was  so  beautiful  and  so  sweet  and  so  single-minded, 


134  WHITE   BIRCHES 

and  her  simplicity  was  never  folly.  It  was  no  doubt  of  his 
feeling  that  withheld  him,  it  was  rather  an  instinctive  un 
willingness  to  disturb  her  peace,  and  a  delight  in  the  pres 
ent  which  would  not  be  hurried  or  ignored ;  nor  did  she 
listen  for  him  to  say  that  he  loved  her,  but  she  did  not  need 
to  tell  herself  that  she  loved  him.  Why  pause  to  analyze 
the  varied  forces  of  a  current  that  is  sweeping  us  along  ? 
She  knew  it  for  the  first  time,  and  doubted  it  as  little  as  if 
she  had  long  known  it.  He  seemed  to  her  faith  what  a 
man  always  seems  to  a  faith  like  hers.  He  was  a  tall,  well- 
made  man  with  somewhat  more  than  indispensable  regular 
ity  of  feature,  talking,  as  he  leaned  against  the  fence  or 
straightened  himself  and  walked  a  few  paces  up  and  down, 
with  earnestness  and  decided  picturesqueness  of  description 
and  allusion,  or  listening  to  her  with  an  attention  that  made 
her  words  seem  suddenly  freighted  with  something  pre 
cious  ;  but  she  would  have  rejected  this  description  from 
its  baldness.  He  was  a  hero.  He  was — she  did  not  stop 
to  think  what  he  was — she  loved  him.  It  was  a  strong, 
deep  conviction  which  she  faced  and  realized  and  thought 
upon  with  the  strength  and  simplicity  of  the  nature  that 
was  hers. 

When  the  little  moon  with  a  fine  audacity  had  made 
good  her  claim  of  a  broader  field  for  the  assertion  of 
her  privileges,  and  had  really  become  an  important  little 
factor  in  the  universe,  so  dim  was  the  sky  and  so  heavy  the 
shadow  in  the  valley,  Davenant  started  across  the  field  in 
the  direction  of  the  village.  Neither  Rhodope  nor  Medcott 
saw  him,  but  he  saw  their  silhouettes  by  the  stile,  and  rec 
ognized  them.  For  an  instant  he  paused  and  then  went 
seriously  on  his  way.  Apparently  he  was  thinking  earnest 
ly,  and  his  earnestness  was  tinged  with  something  that  was 
not  pleasant  as  he  made  a  detour  that  led  him  to  the  Trent 
cottage  without  passing  the  stile.  On  the  piazza  sat  Den- 


WHITE   BIRCHES  135 

ver  Trent  and  Needham,  who  was  making  one  of  his  flying 
visits  to  the  valley.  They  were  talking  with  some  anima 
tion  as  Davenant  approached,  and  apparently  changed  the 
subject  as  they  saw  the  light  of  his  cigarette.  He  stopped 
and  talked  to  them  a  little  while,  and  then  strolled  down  to 
the  Clock's  with  Needham. 

"  All  humbug,"  said  Needham  as  they  made  their  way 
with  some  difficulty  along  the  dark  country  road.  "  Now, 
tell  me  what  would  you  give  to  be  walking  along  a  decent 
side-walk  with  an  electric  light  instead  of  that  inefficient 
moon  overhead  ?" 

"  I  mightn't  have  to  give  anything,"  said  Davenant  pen 
sively.  "  A  pickpocket  or  a  sandbagger  might  take  it,  you 
know." 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Needham,  "  talk  sense.  We  are  neither 
of  us  afraid  of  pickpockets  nor  sandbaggers  in  the  city,  and 
we  don't  either  of  us  like  a — a  confounded  ditch" — and  he 
stepped  down  with  unforeseen  suddenness — "  better  than 
a  curbed  pavement !  George  !  This  is  worse  than  Phila 
delphia." 

"  Well,  I  never  said  it  was  New  York ;  it  is  almost  a  pity 
we  can't  call  a  cab." 

"  And  it's  all  humbug,  Medcott's  staying  up  here  on  ac 
count  of  art.  He's  staying  up  here  to  philander  with  that 
handsome  woman,  old  Trent's  niece — she's  out  with  him 
somewhere  this  evening." 

Davenant  kicked  a  quiescent  pebble  out  of  his  path. 
"Well,  philandering  is  capable  of  being  developed  into 
Art,"  he  drawled. 

"  Well,  let  'em  call  it  by  its  name,  that's  all  I  mean,"  said 
Needham,  not  wishing  to  be  disagreeable.  "  It's  the  hum 
bug  I  object  to." 

Charlie  Needham  was  one  of  those  persons  who  think 
that  every  emotion  they  have  not  themselves  felt  is  neces- 


136  WHITE    BIRCHES 

sarily  a  counterfeited  emotion,  that  every  enjoyment  they 
have  not  felt  is  an  unreal  enjoyment ;  that  every  taste  that 
is  not  theirs  is  an  affected  taste.  Such  men  pride  them 
selves  on  their  ability  to  discern  sham,  and  on  their  own  gen 
uineness,  and  they  are  not  infrequently  genuine  in  a  limited 
sense.  They  have  penetrated  some  of  the  insincerity  of  the 
world,  and  with  insufficient  logic  they  fancy  that  all  they 
have  not  penetrated  is  insincerity  too.  In  their  anxiety 
to  prove  their  superiority  to  certain  affectations,  they  fail 
to  perceive  that  they  are  making  themselves  a  heaven- 
appointed  standard  for  the  race. 

When  the  two  men  reached  the  Clocks',  Needham  went 
inside  to  find  his  wife,  and  Davenant  went  to  the  lamp  in  a 
small  room  off  the  hall,  where  he  began  to  write  in  his  note 
book  : 

"Evening — pink  and  gray  and  green.  Loneliness — girl 
at  the  stile,"  he  wrote.  "  Suggestions  of  sentiment  in  the  en 
vironment."  He  paused  a  moment  here,  and  then  went  on : 
"  Man  (more  worldly)  leans  on  the  fence — air  of  isolation — 
usual  thing."  Here,  with  what  for  Davenant  was  sudden 
ness,  he  drew  his  pencil  thrice  across  what  he  had  written, 
put  book  and  pencil  back  in  his  pocket,  lighted  an  incom 
putable  cigarette  over  the  lamp,  and  went  out  on  the  piazza 
and  stood  gazing  into  the  semi-darkness. 

"Why?  why?  why?"  sang  a  wood-thrush. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  The  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too  : 
And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes." 

"Envy  is  a  gadding  passion  and  walketh  the  streets,  and  doth  not 
keep  house." 

MEDCOTT  looked  out  upon  the  silence  of  the  city  roofs. 
In  the  cold,  clear  west  the  sky  was  reddening  in  the  early 
sunset.  Beyond,  and  beyond,  and  beyond  stretched  the 
plain  of  roofs,  rising  here,  falling  there,  but  all  inequalities 
almost  lost  in  the  general  level.  Over,  and  straight,  and 
obliquely,  apparently  at  cross  purposes,  or  utterly  at  ran 
dom,  from  height  to  height,  concentrating  here  at  some  lofty 
corner  in  a  hopeless  tangle,  widening  there  into  hundreds 
of  hair-like  lines,  the  telegraph  wires  cut  the  clearness  of  the 
sky.  The  flare  of  the  tall  chimneys  turned  slowly,  fitfully, 
now  this  way,  now  that,  moved  mysteriously  by  draughts  of 
air  unfelt  in  the  lower  atmosphere.  On  commodious  ledges 
the  cockney  sparrows  fluttered  and  lunched  and  sported. 
The  dull  roar  of  the  city  was  beneath,  but  above  was  the 
silence  of  an  unoccupied  world.  Unoccupied  !  And  under 
all  these  roofs,  stretching  away  almost  to  the  cool  horizon, 
were  human  lives  and  human  interests  countless  and  con 
flicting,  with  death  and  sorrow  and  shame  and  suffering 
and  disgrace.  So  many  !  So  many !  And  each  to  the 
other  but  a  shadow,  but  a  nonentity,  and  all  alike,  in  the 
eyes  of  an  Omniscient  and  Omnipotent.  Trite  thought — 
but  universal  conviction — too  overpowering  for  long  reflec- 


138  WHITE   BIRCHES 

tion  !  Medcott' s  eyes  fell  upon  the  sparrows,  secure,  opti 
mistic,  unforeseeing.  More  value  than  they  ?  Why  should 
they  be  ? 

Upon  the  easel  stood  the  picture  he  had  been  at  work 
upon  while  the  work  lasted.  The  room  was  filled  with  the 
hangings,  the  bits  of  embroidery,  the  odd  and  curious 
things  that  seem  to  grow  up  about  those  who  represent  the 
artistic  in  life,  seeming  an  indigenous  growth  or  a  painful 
exotic  according  as  the  representation  is  of  genuine  or  ar 
tificial  affiliation.  There  was  a  smouldering  coal-fire  in 
the  low  grate  and  an  odor  of  tobacco  in  the  air.  On  the 
writing-desk  lay  a  number  of  recently  opened  letters,  pam 
phlets,  cards,  and  so  on.  One  epistle  on  tinted  paper,  with 
an  unexceptionable  cipher,  was  conspicuous  from  its  length. 

It  was  almost  the  first  time  that  Medcott  had  had  time 
to  think  uninterruptedly  since  he  left  the  valley.  He  had 
been  summoned  thence  by  a  telegram  from  his  mother's 
physician,  saying  that  she  was  very  ill.  He  had  spent  sev 
eral  anxious  weeks  with  her  and  with  his  sister  at  their 
home  on  the  river,  had  then  made  a  visit  or  two,  and  had 
come  back  to  the  city  a  few  days  before,  oppressed  with 
the  fact  that  winter  had  come  in  earnest,  and  that  somehow 
the  weeks  of  the  fall  had  slipped  away  in  the  unaccount 
able  way  known  to  those  who  have  been  watching  an  in 
valid.  Medcott  was  devoted  to  his  mother,  as,  too,  was 
his  sister,  but  the  son  had  always  been  the  favorite,  for  the 
daughter,  with  the  best  intentions,  was  too  apt  to  succeed  in 
being  antipathetic  rather  than  sympathetic. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Austin,"  said  his  mother  when  she 
was  able  to  speak,  "  Bertha  is  a  dear  child,  but  there  were 
times  when  I  knew  she  thought  I  ought  to  prepare  for  a 
better  world,  and  it  irritated  me.  You  see,  with  that  pain  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  another  world  was  in  the  least 
likely  to  be  worse." 


WHITE   BIRCHES  139 

Bertha  Medcott  was  not  perhaps  any  more  keenly  alive 
to  the  claims  of  another  world  than  her  mother,  but  she 
was  always  oppressed  by  the  idea  that  she  ought  to  be  do 
ing  something  she  wasn't,  and  might  live  to  repent  it.  In 
this  sensitiveness  to  what  might  be  future  reproach  she 
occasionally  disregarded  the  possibilities  of  the  present  re 
proach  of  other  people. 

Since  his  hurried  departure  from  the  valley  Medcott  had 
thought  many  times  of  Rhodope,  but  not  in  a  connected 
strain,  and  insensibly  she  had  glided  back,  as  interests 
which  seem  to  us  the  most  absorbing  will,  to  a  secondary 
place.  He  admired  her  none  the  less.  Were  she  present 
he  would  be  no  more  indifferent  to  her  charm,  but  he  had 
had  no  time  to  devote  to  their  possible  relations.  During 
these  hurried  weeks  she  had  become  an  influence  to  revert 
to,  instead  of  one  claiming  part  of  his  daily  life.  This  af 
ternoon,  however,  as  he  gazed  out  over  the  silence  of  the 
roofs,  towards  the  clear,  green,  western  sky,  the  spell  of 
those  other,  so  different,  silences,  was  upon  him — those  of 
forest,  lake,  and  mountain — and  with  these,  as  an  indwell 
ing  presence,  came  the  vision  of  Rhodope.  He  had  been 
so  sure  that  last  night,  when  he  stood  with  her  by  the  stile, 
that  he  should  tell  her  soon  that  he  loved  her,  so  sure  that 
without  her  life  would  be  a  poor  thing,  limited,  artificial, 
and  that  in  spite  of  the  difficulty  she  would  find  in  adjust 
ing  herself  to  an  existence  less  serene  and  simple,  he  could 
make  her  happy.  He  had  been  sure  of  all  this.  Now 
these  weeks  had  brought  him  back  within  another  horizon. 
He  felt  that  his  was  in  reality  another  world  than  hers  and 
— was  it  not  best  as  it  was  ?  He  had  said  not  a  word  of 
love  to  her.  He  was  sure  her  peace  was  untroubled  as  yet. 
They  had  spoken  of  friendship — had  they  not  been  wise  to 
speak  of  nothing  else  ? 

There   was   a   knock   at   the   door.     "  Come,"  Medcott 


140  WHITE   BIRCHES 

called  out,  and  turned  back  to  the  dim  room  in  which  the 
shadows  had  fallen  swiftly  the  last  half-hour.  "  Hold  on 
a  moment,  though,  whoever  you  are,"  he  added,  as  the 
door  opened,  "till  I  get  a  light,  or  you'll  fall  over  some 
thing." 

"  So  you've  come  back,"  observed  Davenant  from  the 
doorway. 

"  Oh,  Tom,  so  it's  you  ?  how  are  you  ?  Glad  to  see  you. 
Perhaps  you  can  find  your  way.  Not  a  confounded  match 
in  the  box,  of  course." 

With  the  natural  impatience  of  one  who,  though  he  has 
been  watching  the  sun  set,  finds  the  room  has  taken  ad 
vantage  of  his  inattention  to  grow  dark  behind  him,  Med- 
cott  was  industriously  feeling  for  a  match  in  an  ash-receiver 
at  the  wrong  end  of  the  mantelpiece. 

"  I  can  see  well  enough,"  said  Davenant  calmly,  making 
his  way  towards  the  fireplace.  "  I  didn't  come  in  out  of 
the  glare.  I  had  to  feel  my  way  along  your  hall,  by  the 
wall." 

"  Drunk  again,"  observed  Medcott  briefly  as  he  lit  the 
gas. 

"  Oh,  no,"  began  Davenant  mildly,  "  it  wasn't  for  the 
support." 

"  The  janitor,  I  mean.  I  don't  w-ant  to  be  hard  on  a 
janitor,  but  I  wish  he'd  wait  till  after  candle-light." 

"  He'll  give  you  all  the  light  you  want  some  time,  and 
burn  the  building  down.  When  did  you  get  back  ?" 

"  A  week  ago,"  answered  Medcott,  "  though  I've  been 
here  off  and  on  before." 

"  Heard  of  you  now  and  then  at  the  club.  Going  to 
dine  anywhere  ?" 

"  I  hope  so  ;  times  are  hard,  but  I  mean  to  get  a  bite." 

"  Dine  with  me,  then.  I  fell  in  with  a  clever  newspaper 
man  from  the  West  last  night.  You'd  like  to  hear  him 


WHITE    BIRCHES  141 

talk,  and  he  and  Wills  are  going  to  meet  me  for  din 
ner." 

"  With  pleasure.     Who  is  he  ?" 

Their  talk  drifted  from  one  thing  to  another  as  they  sat 
before  the  fire  whose  smouldering  inaction  had  been  en 
livened  by  another  lump  of  coal. 

"  Did  you  stay  long  at  the  Hive  after  I  left  ?"  asked 
Medcott  at  last 

"  No,  not  long.  About  a  week.  Spent  most  of  it  with 
Denver  Trent."  Medcott  felt  a  spasm  of  sudden  jealousy. 
"  Charlie  Needham  was  there  the  last  few  days,  and  we 
used  to  go  up  and  smoke  and  talk  with  the  old  man." 

"  And  Miss  Trent— Rhodope  ?" 

"  Sometimes  she  listened,  sometimes  she  didn't,"  he  an 
swered  briefly. 

"  I  found  among  the  letters  that  didn't  get  forwarded  to 
me,"  said  Medcott,  leaning  forward  and  taking  up  the  tinted 
note-paper  from  the  table,  "  one  from  Mrs.  Needham.  It 
was  written  soon  after  I  left,  and  it  came  to  me  like  a 
breath  from  another  world." 

"  Warm  in  tone,  probably,"  commented  the  other. 

"  A  warmer  world  than  this,  anyhow,"  laughed  Medcott. 
"  She  was  sitting  on  the  piazza  when  she  wrote — she  says 
that  you  have  just  left" — he  ran  his  eyes  over  the  pages 
as  he  spoke — "  that  nearly  everybody  has  gone,  in  fact,  but 
that  she  and  'dear  Edwina  Screed'" —  he  paused  and  looked 
at  Davenant,  who  smiled  his  enigmatic  smile  as  he  said, 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,  that  was  after  you  left — 'dear  Edwina 
Screed '  didn't  come  till  almost  too  late.  You  know  when 
you  were  there  it  was  '  that  little  Screed  woman  !'  " 

Medcott  nodded  as  Davenant  knocked  the  ashes  off 
his  cigarette.  "One  day  she  was  talking  of  Art,  and 
I  was  trying  to  listen,  and  Mrs.  Needham  was  trying  to 
prevent  me,  when  she  said  of  some  plate  or  jug  or  other 


142  WHITE   BIRCHES 

that  it  was  owned  by  her  cousin,  Mrs.  Adell.  There  was  a 
sudden  cessation  of  interruption  and  sarcasm,  but  Miss 
Screed  went  on  placidly — you  know  her  placidity  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Medcott,  "I  know." 

" '  Your  cousin  ?'  said  the  other.  *  My  cousin,  Mrs. 
Adell.'  '  Which  Adell?'  'Why,  Mrs.  Leavenworth 
Adell,'  "  answered  Miss  Screed,  who  was  somewhat  startled 
by  this  sudden  interest.  Then  there  was  a  silence.  To 
me  it  was  like  the  silence  of  the  tomb — "  and  he  paused 
to  light  another  cigarette — "  because  I  knew  if  it  was  filled 
with  anything,  it  was  with  promises  of  future  amendment ; 
and  then  Mrs.  Needham  said,  '  What  were  you  saying,  Ed- 
wina  dear,  about  the  ancient  potters  ?'  and  it's  been  her 
'  dear  Edwina  '  from  that  time  to  this." 

Medcott  laughed.  "  You're  not  at  all  cynical,  are  you, 
Tom  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  try  to  be,  and  now  and  then  I  make  a  pretty  good 
showing,  but  I've  a  beautiful  faith  in  my  fellow-men  when 
you  get  down  to  me." 

"  I  believe  you  have  more  than  most  men,"  assented  Med 
cott. 

"  But  we  get  after  a  while  so  that  we  read  words  of  two 
syllables  at  sight,"  said  Davenant  slowly.  "  We  can't  help 
it ;  it's  the  natural  result  of  practice,  and  we  can't  help  the 
knowledge  that  comes  to  us  with  it.  Great  Scott !  how  I  did 
admire  that  woman  once." 

"  She  was  a  great  beauty." 

"  Yes,  she  had  great  beauty — she  has  now — and  she  had 
other  qualities,  too,  which  are  going  to  last  her  even  longer. 
I  tell  you,"  and  he  clasped  his  arms  behind  his  head 
and  gazed  into  the  fire  thoughtfully,  "  Cupid  is  painted 
blind/because  he  hasn't  any  foresight,  but  he's  got  an 
awful  lot  of  hindsight.  Go  on,  did  she  give  you  any  more 
news  ?" 


WHITE   BIRCHES  143 

"  She  says,  '  I  see  the  errant  Rhodope  now  and  then ;  so 
far,  I  think  she  has  found  no  more  knights  to  succor.'" 
Medcott  turned  the  leaf  impatiently. 

"Small-minded  women,"  announced  Davenant  senten- 
tiously,  "never  know  when  they  have  had  enough roi  their 
own  bon-mots" 

"  *  I  told  her  the  other  day  that  you — ' " 

"  Go  on." 

"It's  only  some  of  her  maliciousness,"  said  Austin  angrily, 
breaking  off  the  sentence. 

"  I  can  fancy,"  said  Davenant,  "  just  the  sort  of  thing  she 
told  her  for  her  good." 

"  'The  little  circus  girl—'  " 

"  Isn't  a  circus  girl,  by  the  way." 

" '  The  little  circus  girl  is  still  the  Boadicea,  or  the  Fairy 
Princess,  or  the  Rosalind,  or  whatever  you  like,  of  the  liter 
ary  Jib,  and  is  weaving  the  fascinations  of  the  ring  about 
young  Schumacher,  who  is  still  a  member  of  the  Dust  house 
hold,  and  rendering  Jib's  life  and  that  of  young  S.'s  mother 
alike  an  apprehensive  one.'  That's  all  the  valley  news,  I 
guess,"  and  he  tossed  the  letter  back  on  the  table. 

"  Leaving  out  the  undoubtedly  intentional  error  of  the 
reference  to  the  ring,  there  must  be  a  good  deal  of  truth  in 
that  last.  It  began  before  I  left.  That  little  Elizabeth  is  a 
young  person  of  unlimited  coquetry,  and  she  hasn't  lived 
long  enough  to  know  what  Jib  Trent  is  worth.  Get  your 
coat,  Medcott,  I  guess  we've  exhausted  the  social  situation 
of  the  valley." 

The  Western  newspaper  man  not  only  managed  a  newspa 
per,  he  was  a  bit  of  an  inventor  as  well.  He  had  knocked 
about  the  West  in  its  early  days,  and  had  gained  a  breadth 
of  view  which  knocking  about  over  such  wide  areas  natu 
rally  imparts.  He  was  constantly  entertaining  and  oc 
casionally  brilliant,  and  the  fact  that  he  must  leave  on  an 


144  WHITE    BIRCHES 

early  evening  train,  on  business  connected  with  what  he  had 
invented  last,  was  the  only  drawback  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  occasion.  As  they  came  out  of  the  dining-room  they 
passed  a  small  room  reserved  for  private  dinners,  where  evi 
dently  a  very  gay  party  was  being  entertained.  The  din 
ner  was  just  over,  and  there  was  that  indiscriminate  sound 
of  moving  of  chairs,  voices,  and  laughter  which  follows.  A 
man  turned  quickly  as  the  four  went  by  the  half-open  door, 
and,  coming  out,  followed  them.  It  was  Charlie  Needham ; 
his  cheeks  were  flushed  with  wine,  and  he  was  in  high  spirits, 
but  there  was  a  deep  line  between  his  eyebrows,  which  gay- 
ety  had  not  smoothed  away,  and  his  eyes  were  more  restless 
than  usual. 

"  I  say,  Davenant,"  he  called  out,  "  beg  pardon  for  de 
taining  you.  Let  me  speak  to  you  half  a  minute." 

The  other  men  went  on,  and  Davenant  and  Needham 
stepped  one  side. 

"  I've  been  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  you 
for  a  week,"  he  said  rapidly.  "  Then,  when  I  saw  you 
through  the  door,  I  thought  I  must  do  it.  Seemed  provi 
dential,  you  know.  That  is,  if  the  finger  of  Providence  ever 
points  through  a  half-shut  door  after  a  champagne  dinner," 
and  he  laughed  rather  loudly. 

"  May  be  all  the  more  necessary,"  suggested  Davenant 
quietly. 

"  Yes,  that's  so.  I  need  some  one  to  look  after  me.  Fact 
is,  I'm  in  a  tight  place,  Davenant ;  that's  what  I  want  to  see 
you  about.  Give  me  half  an  hour  to-morrow,  when  you  are 
not  busy.  Any  time  you  like." 

"  Say  about  noon — I'll  come  to  your  office.  Shall  be 
down  that  way." 

Through  the  door  of  the  brilliantly-lighted  room  came  the 
sound  of  voices,  not  loud  but  gay.  Men  were  passing 
through  the  hall,  nodding  to  one  another,  sending  messages, 


WHITE   BIRCHES  145 

lighting  cigars.    The  line  on  Needham's  forehead  deepened 
as  he  indicated  the  room  he  had  left  with  a  half-nod. 

"  They're  going  to  the  theatre,"  he  said  ;  "  I  haven't  time 
— too  many  other  things  to  think  of.  See  you  to-morrow  at 
noon." 

The  colloquy  had  only  lasted  two  minutes,  and  Davenant 
passed  on,  buttoning  his  coat,  while  Needham  stepped  back 
to  the  door — then  he  stopped,  turned,  and  came  back  and 
added,  laughing, 

"  I  don't  know  just  why  I  come  to  you,  Tom,  but  you've 
always  been  a  good  friend  of  mine."  He  paused  an  instant 
and  then  went  on,  still  with  the  laugh  about  which  there 
was  more  than  a  touch  of  recklessness.  "You  ought  by 
rights  to  hate  me,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Davenant  with  a  slight  smile,  "  I 
don't  hate  you,  Needham,  at  all,"  and  he  rejoined  his  com 
panions  at  the  door  of  entrance,  while  Needham  returned  to 
the  room  which  the  theatre  party  were  just  leaving. 

"  That's  an  odd  burst  of  sentiment,"  thought  Davenant, 
as  they  walked  up  towards  Forty-second  Street.  "  I  haven't 
ever  been  anything  particular  in  the  way  of  a  friend  towards 
Charlie  Needham.  Something  must  be  up.  He's  in  that 
mood  when  ordinarily  decent  treatment  assumes  the  propor 
tions  of  the  relations  of  Orestes  and  Pylades — it's  not  an  un 
common  thing — usually  means  there's  danger  of  losing  even 
that.  I  wonder  if  he  doesn't  really  know  the  favor  he  did  me." 
Wills  had  left  them,  but  Medcott  kept  on  with  the  other  two, 
and  he  was  talking  with  the  journalist  about  a  recent  publi 
cation  they  had  both  been  reading,  while  Davenant  consid 
ered  the  Needhams.  "  Can  hardly  be  money,  except  that 
Needham  has  always  fancied  gambling — and  when  a  man 
does  that,  it's  pretty  likely  to  be  money — still,  I  thought  he 
could  afford  to  play  with  stocks  ;  wonder  why  he  comes  to 
me — there's  a  lot  of  richer  men  in  his  intimate  set." 
10 


146  WHITE   BIRCHES 

The  truth  was  that  men  were  very  apt  to  go  to  Davenant 
if  they  were  in  difficulties.  He  was  wont  to  assure  them 
that  he  never  kept  anything  by  him  for  those  who  fell  by 
the  wayside,  except  the  oil  of  "  worse  things  might  have 
happened,"  and  the  wine  of  "  any  foci  might  have  known 
it,"  but  perhaps  these  remedies  possessed  simple  curative 
properties  unknown  to  priests  and  Levites.  Certainly  they 
were  in  more  or  less  demand.  A  pretty  wide,  and  by  no 
means  shallow,  knowledge  of  human  nature  and  entire  ab 
sence  of  conviction  regarding  the  duty  of  "improving  the 
occasion"  are  apt  to  render  people  esteemed  confidants. 

Later,  he  dropped  in  at  Daly's  with  Medcott.  Ada  Re- 
han's  voice  was  vibrating  through  a  delighted  house,  and 
Lewis,  the  very  wrinkles  in  whose  coat  are  mirth-provoking, 
was  the  victim  of  some  delicious  anxiety  or  other.  The  fra 
grance  of  the  flowers  worn  by  the  pretty  women  in  the  audi 
ence  was  now  and  then  wafted  across  by  the  waving  of  a 
fan,  and  the  odor  of  a  cigarette  drifted  in  with  the  entrance 
of  a  dress-coat.  In  a  stage-box  sat  the  party  of  which 
Florence  Needham  was  one.  In  a  ravishing  costume  of 
green  and  silver,  her  charming  profile  outlined  against  the 
hangings,  her  piquant  beauty  sparkling  like  the  brilliant 
lights  and  the  diamonds  in  her  bonnet-strings,  she  sat  listen 
ing  with  a  smile  to  the  man  behind  her.  When  she  spoke 
herself,  he  laughed,  and  indeed  most  of  the  others  did.  She 
was  in  excellent  conversational  form  to-night.  It  was  nat 
ural  she  should  be.  She  was  with  quite  the  right  sort  of 
people,  exquisitely  dressed,  in  the  front  of  the  box,  and  a 
pretty  woman.  She  saw  the  two  men  as  they  came  in  and 
took  their  seats  not  far  off.  Her  color  changed,  for  she  had 
not  seen  Medcott  since  the  summer,  and  he  had  not  an 
swered  her  letter.  A  short  note  just  after  he  left  the  valley 
being  the  only  word  she  had  heard  from  him  for  months. 
Davenant  she  had  seen  now  and  then.  Medcott  was  very 


WHITE    BIRCHES  147 

handsome  to-night,  and  through  the  play  itself,  and  all  the 
laughter  and  persiflage  which  apparently  occupied  her  whole 
soul,  she  never  altogether  lost  sight  of  his  distinguished  face 
and  figure,  as  he  sat  before  her,  his  eyes  turned  towards  the 
stage,  save  when  he  exchanged  a  word  or  smile  with  Dave- 
nant.  The  evening  ought  to  have  been  a  great  success  ;  it 
was  something  of  a  triumph  for  Florence.  The  party  was 
made  up  of  the  elect.  It  was  given  for  a  foreigner  of  note, 
and  he  had  shown  a  marked  interest  in  Mrs.  Needham. 
With  the  nicety  of  a  qualified  judge  she  knew  what  it  was 
worth — and  it  was  worth  a  good  deal.  Yet  when  it  was 
over  and  the  door  of  her  own  house  had  closed  behind  her, 
and  she  had  gone  upstairs  to  her  room  in  silence,  being  in 
formed  that  Mr.  Needham  had  not  yet  come  in,  it  was  with 
the  impatience  of  chagrin  that  she  pulled  off  her  gloves  and 
tossed  down  her  ornaments.  "I  would  rather  have  had 
those  two  men  come  and  speak  to  me  than  —  than  all  the 
rest  of  it !"  she  exclaimed  angrily,  "and  they  —  they  never 
looked  at  me !  Austin  Medcott  might  at  least  have  the 
simple  decency  to  come  and  call  after  the  summer.  I  won 
der  how  long  he  has  been  in  the  city."  Her  maid  took  her 
heavy  evening  wrap  and  put  away  the  things  she  threw 
aside.  When  she  had  gone  for  the  night,  Florence  dropped 
into  a  chair  in  front  of  the  mirror,  and  looked  at  her  own 
reflection  frowning ;  then,  remembering  that  frowning  pro 
duced  wrinkles,  her  brow  cleared. 

"  He  never  looked  at  all,"  she  said  again.  Her  thoughts 
succeeded  each  other  in  angry  confusion.  The  sight  of 
Medcott's  handsome  head  and  broad  shoulders  had  called 
up  all  the  sentiment  that  had  been  overlain  since  her  re 
turn  by  the  requirements  of  daily  life.  His  mingling  of  def 
erence  and  indifference  was  the  very  charm  to  fix  her  vola 
tile  fancy.  She  wished  passionately  to  break  through  that 
indifference  and  to  inspire  that  deference  with  something 


148  WHITE    BIRCHES 

deeper  than  courtesy.  When  her  beauty  had  failed  to  do 
this,  she  had  exerted  all  the  fascination — and  it  was  no  tri 
fling  amount — of  which  she  was  capable,  and  when  this, 
too,  had  failed,  she  had  annoyed  and  irritated  him  in  the 
bad  temper  of  disappointment.  At  least  she  had  produced 
effect  by  her  flings  at  Rhodope  Trent.  Rhodope  Trent ! 
There  it  was,  the  secret  of  her  failure.  How  she  hated 
her !  If  she  had  but  stayed  away,  Medcott  would  have 
found  all  the  entertainment  he  wished  beneath  the  Clock 
roof-tree.  Florence  knew  she  was  too  pretty  a  woman  for 
a  man  to  feel  deeply  the  necessity  of  looking  further ;  but 
that  awkward,  ignorant,  good-looking  girl  must  needs  come 
across  his  path  with  her  pose  of  ingenuousness  and  air  of 
woodland  poesy,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  and  appeal  to  his 
susceptible  artist's  soul  in  a  way  that  she  could  not,  and 
which  was,  moreover — this  at  least  was  a  comfort — pretty 
sure  to  produce  a  misunderstanding  on  the  girl's  part. 
Florence  rose  and  moved  restlessly  the  silver  trifles  of  her 
dressing-table,  then  she  walked  to  the  hearth,  where  the  fire 
was  just  dying  out.  Yes,  misunderstanding,  of  course,  and 
that  would  annoy  him,  and  she,  Florence,  would  always  un 
derstand,  and  he  might  find  that  out  in  the  reaction.  What 
a  pleasure  to  have  the  distinguished  Austin  Medcott  her 
devoted  attendant !  What  excitement  in  the  devotion  it 
self  !  What  avenues  might  it  not  open  to  her !.  But  to 
gain  all  this  she  must  reach  him — must  have  him  at  hand 
— and  how  to  do  this  ?  Ah  !  the  lamentable  conventions  of 
society !  It  is  a  proof  of  the  unconsciousness  of  deep  emo 
tion  that  this  heretical  exclamation  passed  through  her 
mind  without  producing  a  shudder.  Her  only  hold  on  him 
was  through  Davenant — Davenant  who  once  loved  her — 
who  might  love  her  still.  Her  meditations  were  a  curious 
mingling  of  genuine  feeling,  prudential  foresight,  and  social 
mathematics.  Almost  the  last  image  in  her  mind  that  night 


WHITE   BIRCHES  149 

was  the  annoying  one  of  Medcott  and  Davenant  at  the  the 
atre  never  once  looking  in  her  direction,  but  to  this  suc 
ceeded  a  glimpse  of  the  distinguished  personnel  of  the  din 
ner,  and  she  sank  into  a  deep  and  refreshing  sleep. 

She  was  mistaken,  they  had  looked  at  her  several 
times. 

"The  front  of  the  box,"  had  said  Davenant  pensively, 
"that -is  the  place  for  Florence  Needham.  You  observe  I 
speak  enigmatically — in  a  metaphorical  sense,"  he  added 
in  kindly  explanation,  "  referring  as  it  were  to  life  as  a  the 
atre,  and  so  on." 

"  It's  a  benefit  to  the  rest  of  the  house,"  replied  Med 
cott  ;  "  she's  a  marvellously  pretty  woman." 

"  So  she  is,"  said  Davenant ;  "  I  hope  the  time  may  never 
come  when  a  too  exacting  socialism  will  cut  out  the  parts 
of  such  ornamental  lookers-on." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is  coming  in  my  time,  or  in  yours." 
Medcott  was  a  persistent  optimist. 

"  Such  sentiments  were  rife  in  the  critical  time  of  the 
late  esteemed  Noah." 

"  Oh,  I  say !  you  don't  believe  we  are  dancing  on  the 
verge  of  a  crater,  or  skating  on  the  thin  ice  over  a  cataract, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  any  more  than  I  do." 

"I  don't  believe  anything  about  it,"  replied  Davenant 
calmly.  "  It  is  not  the  business  of  a  humble  newspaper 
man  to  believe  anything,  but  merely  to.  hold  himself  in 
readiness  not  to  be  surprised.  The  business  would  go  to 
the  dogs  if  we  allowed  ourselves  to  become  critical  about 
the  truth  of  a  statement,  or  to  be  surprised." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  would  not  be  surprised  at  a  French 
Revolution  breaking  out  under  our  feet?" 

"  Oh,  very  much.  A  progressive  newspaper  man  cannot 
fail  to  perceive  that  New  York  no  longer  slavishly  gets  her 
fashions  from  Paris.  She  sets  her  own,  but  a  good  deal  of 


150  WHITE   BIRCHES 

the  stock-broking  and  the  starving  has  got  to  be  stopped 
some  time,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  has,"  assented  Medcott — "  undoubted 
ly  it-has." 

"And  when  a  good  many  people  think  certain  things 
have  got  to  be  done  some  time,  some  fools  are  likely  to 
take  it  upon  themselves  to  set  the  clock  ahead." 

"  There's  truth  in  what  you  say,  Tom,"  said  Medcott. 
"  We  all  know  that ;  but  from  the  glittering  generalities  of 
your  style  I  should  say  you  were  working  off  one  of  your 
half-columns  on  me." 

"  Just  the  introduction  for  a  metropolitan  letter  to  a  pro 
vincial  journal,"  replied  Davenant  with  perfect  fairness. 
"  Glad  to  see  it  strikes  you  favorably." 

They  had  been  talking  during  an  intermission,  and  as 
the  curtain  went  up  for  the  next  act,  the  orchestra,  which 
had  been  playing  a  medley  of  popular  songs,  struck  into  the 
air  of  the  boat-song  which  had  been  so  popular  in  the  sum 
mer,  and  which  Rhodope  had  been  singing  when  she  found 
Medcott  in  the  woods.  He  had  not  heard  it  since.  From 
that  moment  on,  he  never  lost  the  thought  of  her.  Social 
ism  and  politics  were  forgotten.  He  joined  in  the  laughter, 
he  noted  the  brilliancy  of  stage  and  audience,  but  it  all 
seemed  only  to  mark  the  contrast  with  another  life.  She 
— his  beautiful,  strong,  free  Rhodope — she  could  never  live 
in  this  artificial  atmosphere.  He  had  done  right,  he  had 
done  the  best  thing  for  them  both.  Suppose  he  might  have 
made  her  love  him — even  supposing  the  worst — suppose 
that  he  had  made  her  love  him,  how  much  better  for  her  a 
little  regret  among  the  mountains,  and  then  peace,  than  a  life 
long  uneasiness' and  pain.  Yes,  he  had  done  the  best  thing. 
As  usual,  Medcott  was  in  danger  of  losing  a  fair  estimate  of 
the  arguments  on  one  side  from  his  disposition  to  give  their 
full  weight  to  those  on  the  other.  The  two  men  came  out 


WHITE    BIRCHES  151 

of  the  theatre  together  and  turned  up-town.  They  spoke  of 
indifferent  matters  as  they  passed  through  the  glare  of  the 
brilliant  lights,  but  as  they  turned  into  one  of  the  quieter 
cross-streets,  where  Davenant  lived,  a  short  silence  fell  be 
tween  them.  The  moon  was  shining,  and  here  one  might 
be  allowed  to  perceive  it,  without  manifesting  undue  rus 
ticity  and  an  unfashionable  familiarity  with  the  almanac. 
The  houses  seemed  suddenly  so  tall  and  dark,  it  suggest 
ed  the  idea  that  they  grew  like  Jack's  bean-stalk  in  the 
night.  The  dash  of  a  cab  on  the  stones  was  infrequent, 
and  became  an  event.  An  elevated  train  shot  across  the 
opening  of  the  street  on  one  of  the  more  distant  avenues. 

"  Davenant,"  said  Medcott,  pausing  an  instant  and  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder,  "  do  you  think  she 
could  ever  be  happy  here  ?  Tell  me  as  you  hope  for  hap 
piness  yourself." 

Davenant's  lips  drooped  into  his  curious,  pleasant,  cyni 
cal  smile. 

"  Can't  you  think  of  a  better  invocation,  my  dear  fellow? 
Have  I  ever  struck  you  as  a  person  who  pinned  much  faith 
to  his  own  hopes  of  happiness  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Medcott  impatiently,  "  do  you  think  she 
would  ?" 

"  Of  whom  might  you  be  speaking  ?" 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean — Rhodope  Trent." 

"Do  I  think  she  could  be  happy  here  ?"  repeated  Dave 
nant  as  they  moved  on  again.  A  look,  half  tenderness, 
half  regret,  crossed  his  face.  "  I  think  she  could — so  far 
as  women  ever  are  happy — under  the  right  conditions.  I 
don't  think  she  would  find  her  true  happiness  in  always 
being  in  the  front  of  the  box,  but  with  the  man  that  loved 
her—" 

"Well!" 

"Then  I  think  it  would  be  just  the  same  old  risk  not 


152  WHITE    BIRCHES 

materially  increased,"  he  concluded,  glancing  at  his  com 
panion. 

"  I  love  her,"  said  Medcott  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Yes  ?"  observed  Davenant  quietly. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  know  whether  I  have  known  it  before  or 
not.  I  know  it  to-night;  but  rather  than  bring  her  here  to 
be  unhappy,  or  to  be  happy  in  losing  that  singular  strength 
and  sweetness  that  distinguishes  her — "  he  paused  a  mo 
ment. 

"  Men  are  apt  to  think  there  is  something  singular  in  the 
women  they  love,  I  fancy — before  they  marry  them,"  com 
mented  Davenant. 

"  And  after,  too.  This  is  no  case  for  satire,  Davenant, 
and  you  know  it." 

"  Well,  then,  why  should  she  lose  them  ?  They  are  part 
of  her." 

"Why  do  we  ever  lose  what  is  best  in  us?  Because 
we  are  stifled!  Rather  than  that  —  I  would  never  see 
her  again.  I  would  only  remember  her  always,"  he 
went  on  almost  passionately.  "To  have  her  sensitive 
ness  touched  by  insinuations  and  ridicule — her  ignorance 
made  a  discomfort  —  her  very  truthfulness  a  disadvan 
tage —  to  have  repeated  some  of  the  scenes  we  saw  last 
summer,  Davenant — and  I  —  I  could  not  protect  her;  a 
man  cannot  always  protect  a  woman !  Heavens !  It 
would  be  like  bringing  one  of  those  delicate  ferns  from 
its  forest  freshness  to  blacken  in  the  gas-light  of  a  city 
parlor." 

"A  little  worse,  perhaps." 

"  If  I  only  knew,  if  I  could  only  tell — whether  I  was  shut 
ting  away  my  own  best  happiness  or  only  saving  hers,  that 
is  the  question." 

"  You  talk  curiously  for  a  man  in  love.  You  ought  to 
have  no  doubts — and  then  vainly  repent  afterwards." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  153 

"  I  know — I  know,  but  it  is  love,  just  the  same.  I  am 
pretty  well  acquainted  with  myself,  Davenant.  That  is  the 
reason.  I  know  the  perfect  charm  of  her  fitness  in  the 
place.  I  know  the  glamour  that  Nature  casts  over  men  of 
my  temperament.  How  much  did  all  that  influence — not 
my  conception  of  her  —  not  that,  Tom — but  that  of  my 
own  faith  and  devotion  to  the  ideal?  I  distrust  myself,  I 
might  now  and  then  feel  that  I  must  slip  back  to  a  lower 
plane." 

"  I  think  it  extremely  probable,"  assented  Davenant. 
"  You  wouldn't  care  for  the  mountains  all  the  year  round, 
but  neither  do  I  think  it  a  foregone  conclusion  that  she 
does.  I  wish  you  might  see  how  she  would  adapt  herself 
to  other  conditions." 

"I  wish  I  might,"  said  Medcott  briefly,  "you  understand 
me,  Davenant ;  it  is  her  happiness  I  am  thinking  of." 

"Yes,  I  understand  you,  and,  what  is  more,  I  believe 
what  you  say.  With  most  men  I  should  conclude  that  this 
hesitation  was  the  reflection  of  their  doubt  of  their  own 
happiness,  but  I  do  you  no  such  injustice."  His  voice  had 
dropped  its  tone  of  half -mockery,  which  somehow  peo 
ple  never  found  unsympathetic,  and  he  said  with  earnest 
ness  as  he  stopped  with  Medcott  at  the  foot  of  the  stone 
steps, 

"But  tell  me  this  before  I  go  any  further  —  have  you 
ever  said  to  her  a  word  of  what  you  have  been  saying  to 
me?"  Medcott  shook  his  head.  "Wait  a  minute,  I  know 
that  you  may  have  said  a  dozen  things  that  you  had  bet 
ter  not  have  said.  One  doesn't  float  around  on  Shadow 
Pond  or  watch  the  sunset  at  the  stile  with  an  utterly  in 
experienced  person  without  slipping  most  heedlessly  into 
these  things — but  have  you  ever  said  to  her  that  you  love 
her  in  such  terms  that  she  can  be  saying  it  over  to  herself 
now?" 


154  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  It  is  well  that  no  one  but  you  ask  me  that  question, 
Davenant,"  said  Medcott,  his  voice  low  and  tense;  "but  I 
will  answer  you.  I  never  have,"  he  added  solemnly,  "  so 
help  me  God !" 


CHAPTER   XII 

"  Mais  savez  vous  quelle  est  la  difference  entre  1'erreur  des  hommes  et 
1'erreur  des  femmes  ?  Non,  vous  ne  le  savez  pas  !  Voila  en  quoi  elle 
consiste  :  un  homme  pourra  dire,  par  exemple,  que  deux  et  deux  ne 
font  pas  quatre,  mais  cinq  :  une  femme  dira  que  deux  et  deux  font  une 
bougie  de  cire." 

'*  And  she — I'll  tell  you — calmly  would  decree 
That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 
If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night." 

DAVENANT  found  Needham  alone  in  his  office  the  next 
day  at  noon.  The  latter  was  not  in  the  good  spirits  of  the 
evening  before  ;  certain  lines  about  his  mouth  and  eyes, 
which  had  not  been  evident  then,  were  easily  to  be  seen 
to-day,  and,  though  his  manner  was  quieter,  there  was  in  it 
a  marked  restlessness  and  constraint,  the  more  perceptible 
that  he  tried  to  be  unusually  cordial  and  at  ease.  He 
pulled  up  a  curtain  with  a  jerk,  shoved  a  chair  out  of  what 
was  not  in  the  least  his  way,  kicked  the  waste-basket  aside, 
and  made  other  hospitable  demonstrations.  Meanwhile 
Davenant  took  a  chair  and  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  Been  so  busy  all  the  morning  that  I  haven't  had  time 
to  cool  off,"  said  Needham,  throwing  himself  down  into  his 
revolving  chair ;  "  so  busy  I  haven't  had  time  to  do  my 
wife's  commissions,  by  the  same  token,"  he  added,  glancing 
at  a  twist  of  paper  on  his  desk.  "  She  wanted  me  to  leave 
an  order  for  some  flowers — doesn't  trust  me  with  commis 
sions  often,"  and  he  laughed,  "  but  she  couldn't  see  her 


156  WHITE    BIRCHES 

way  out  of  it  this  morning.  I  sha'n't  earn  her  lasting  in 
gratitude,  however,  if  I  forget  'em — she  probably  expected 
me  to.  Wants  flowers  for  that  Adell  musicale."  He  seemed 
to  be  talking  against  time.  "  That's  another  confounded 
humbug,"  he  asserted  positively,  causing  Davenant  unsmil- 
ingly  to  consider  whether  or  not  the  implied  former  one 
was  Florence.  "  Music !  Who  in  possession  of  his  faculties 
wants — really  wants — to  hear  music  ?"  He  waited  appa 
rently  for  an  indignant  response,  but  Davenant  only  said, 

"  It  depends  a  little  upon  what  faculties  one  possesses, 
doesn't  it  ?" 

"  All  humbug  !  All  sheer  humbug  and  affectation  !"  said 
Needham  violently.  "  It's  the  fashion — that's  what  it  is  ! 
And  people  are  persuading  themselves  that  they'd  rather 
hear  it  than  eat !  Most  of  'em  would  give  a  dollar  to  get 
away  from  the  best  musical  show  going.  I'm  not  musical 
myself." 

"  No  ?"  interjected  Davenant  in  mild  surprise. 

"  No,  I'm  not.  And  consequently  I'm  not  afraid  to  say 
what  I  think— and  I  think  it's  all  a  confounded  humbug." 

"  I  suppose  there  isn't  anybody  else  in  the  world,  Need- 
ham,  but  you  and  me,  who  isn't  afraid  to  say  what  he 
thinks,"  observed  Davenant  lazily.  He  didn't  believe 
Charlie  had  summoned  him  to  shed  new  light  on  the  ques 
tion  of  music,  but  he  was  quite  willing  to  let  him  take  his 
own  time. 

"Precious  few,"  assented  Needham.  "I'm  not — and  I 
believe  you're  not.  But  we  can't  either  of  us  say  that  about 
many  people  we  know." 

"  I  don't  believe  I'm  not,"  reflected  Davenant.  "  I'm 
afraid  now  to  say  I  enjoy  music.  I  thought  I  did  rather — 
just  a  little  now  and  then,  you  know." 

"Oh,  rather!"  and  he  pushed  a  paper-weight  from  one 
side  of  the  table  to  another.  "  That's  another  thing.  But 


WHITE    BIRCHES  157 

these  people  that  rave,  you  know,  and  that  are  so  uplifted 
by  it  and  find  it  the  great  gift  of  inarticulate  expression. 
Great  Scott !  as  if  they  hadn't  rather  articulately  express 
themselves  over  a  chicken-fight !" 

Davenant  suspected  that  Florence  had  been  indulging  in 
a  burst  of  well-regulated  enthusiasm  which  had  proved  ir 
ritating,  as  her  bursts  of  enthusiasm  sometimes  were  to 
people  who  saw  the  source  of  the  inspiration. 

"The  Adells  rave  over  it,  you  see,  and  the  Adells  are 
pretty  honest  sort  of  people  as  people  go,"  he  said,  to  keep 
up  the  conversation.  "  I  never  caught  them  at  liking  any 
thing  recklessly  because  it  was  the  fashion." 

11  Oh,  the  Adells  !"  repeated  Needham,  who  had  not  meant 
to  be  suddenly  confronted  by  the  Adells,  who  straightfor 
wardly  indulged  their  own  tastes,  having  no  social  axes  to 
grind.  "  They  say  they  do." 

"  Oh,  well,"  drawled  Davenant,  "  if  it  comes  to  a  ques 
tion  of  personal  veracity,  we're  all  likely  to  have  the  other 
man's  word  taken,  you  know." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  a  young  broker  who 
occupied  the  next  office  came  in. 

"You're  here,  Needham,"  he  said,  nodding  to  Davenant 
whom  he  knew  slightly ;  "  I  met  Slyck  outside  and  he 
asked  me  to  give  you  this — he  was  on  the  way  to  the  station. 
Good  tobacco  you're  smoking,  Mr.  Davenant,"  and  with 
another  nod  he  left  the  room. 

Needham  read  hastily  the  note  the  man  had  given  him 
and  then  pitched  it  into  the  waste-basket  with  the  mono 
syllable  that  ought  to  receive  a  most  grateful  public  rec 
ognition,  so  overworked  is  it  by  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon 
race. 

"Another  bit  of  my  cursed  luck!"  he  said.  "The  truth 
is,  as  I  told  you  last  night,  I  am  in  a  tight  place,  Davenant. 
I  want  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  a  Hurry — and  I  don't 


158  WHITE    BIRCHES 

want  to  borrow  it  around  here,"  he  added  significantly.  "  I 
know  you  haven't  anybody  dependent  on  you,  and  after 
seeing  you  this  summer  and  reviving  old  times  more  or  less, 
it  seemed  to  me  easier  to  go  to  you  for  a  friendly  turn  than 
to  anybody  else  I  know.  Then,  again,  you  haven't  got  any 
of  that  cursed  Pharasaism  that's  going  to  make  your 
friendship  worse  than  an  enmity  to  lay  hold  of!" 

He  had  poured  out  his  words  in  the  same  nervous,  restless 
way  in  which  he  had  arraigned  music-lovers,  and  now  he 
paused  suddenly. 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  Davenant,  taking  his  cigarette  out 
of  his  mouth  to  speak.  He  would  have  been  surprised, 
if  anything  in  the  way  of  reverses  in  fortune  surprises 
an  American,  for  he  had  believed  Needham  to  be  a  rich 
man. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  whole  business,  and  then  you 
can  do  as  you  please.  I've  been  gambling,  of  course,  a 
little  in  stocks  and  a  good  deal  at  the  poker-table — naturally 
the  former  has  been  the  more  expensive.  I've  had  the 
devil's  own  luck  against  me  in  both,  Davenant — and  I've 
spent  money  that  I  ought  to  have  shot  myself  before  I 
touched — there  !  that's  the  matter  in  a  nutshell." 

His  bravado  failed  to  cover  his  real  shame  and  mortifica 
tion.  As  the  light  smile  he  had  maintained  through  much 
of  his  talk  left  his  lips,  he  looked  thoroughly  worn  and 
harassed.  He  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  successful 
sharpers  are  made,  and  the  perquisites  of  dishonesty  had 
not  been  sufficiently  large  to  make  them  look  like  the  guer 
don  of  honest  toil.  Davenant  was  sorry  for  him,  and  as  he 
thought  of  Florence  and  her  utter  inability  to  be  anything 
but  an  added  burden  under  such  complications,  his  former 
envy  of  this  man  seemed  as  unreal  as  a  shadow. 

"  I  like  your  telling  me  the  whole  business,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  but  I  don't  see  how  I'm  going  to  help  you,  Need- 


WHITE   BIRCHES  159 

ham.  I  haven't  money  enough  in  the  world,  probably,  to 
pull  you  out  of  the  hole  you're  in." 

"  I  don't  want  much,"  said  Needham  eagerly ;  "  that's 
the  worst  of  my  luck !  If  I  can  get  over  this  place,  I'm  all 
right — I  know  I  am.  I  can  see  my  way  clear.  But  just 
now  I'm  pinched,  and  I  must  pay  a  debt  that  not  to  pay 
means — "  he  paused,  and  laughed  unmirthfully — "well, 
means  the  bow-wows  and  no  mistake." 

The  brilliant  sunshine  poured  in  under  the  curtain  Need- 
ham  had  pulled  part  of  the  way  down.  The  roar  of  the 
street  came  up  to  them,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  voices, 
gay  or  abrupt,  hurried  always,  and  the  passing  and  repass- 
ing  of  busy  feet  just  outside  the  door.  The  whole  situa 
tion  was  trite  as  possible, 

"  Well,  I  guess  we'll  have  to  throw  a  stick  at  them  any 
way,"  said  Davenant. 

"  I  knew  you  would  give  a  man  a  leg  up  !"  said  Needham, 
resting  his  folded  arms  on  the  table,  and  leaning  over  tow 
ards  Davenant.  For  the  first  time  since  the  interview  began, 
he  remained  in  one  position  for  more  than  a  moment.  "  It's 
chiefly  on  account  of  Florence  I  care,  of  course.  It's  no  easy 
thing  to  tell  a  woman  like  that  that  you  can't  pay  her  bills." 

Needham  did  not  mean  to  be  cynical,  he  only  thought  of 
this  contingency  as  the  most  natural  one  to  bring  out  the 
unwelcome  truth.  Davenant  saw  this,  and  fancied  that  he 
perceived  also  that  Needham  meant  to  call  upon  his  past 
sentiment  for  Florence  and  his  unwillingness  that  she 
should  suffer,  as  an  unmentioned  ally  whose  presence  he 
had  felt  in  his  first  impulse  towards  him  as  a  confidant.  In 
Davenant's  silence  there  seemed  no  lack  of  sympathy ;  he 
was  thinking  of  his  own  affairs  in  the  light  of  this  appeal, 
and  apparently  so  Charlie  understood  it,  for  he  was  the  first 
to  speak  again.  Evidently  he  found  in  confession  the  usual 
relief. 


160  WHITE   BIRCHES 

"  Do  you  remember  that  old  man  up  in  the  valley  ?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"  What  old  man  ?     Denver  Trent  ?" 

"  The  same,"  with  an  accent  of  jollity  which  his  voice 
immediately  lost.  "  Well,  I  don't  know  what  devil  prompted 
me,  but  I  talked  speculation  to  him." 

Needham  paused,  for  Davenant  had  risen  and  looked  at 
him  with  a  certain  quiet  scorn. 

"  Go  on." 

"  On  my  honor,  it  was  in  all  honesty,  Davenant — these 
things  hadn't  happened  then." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  And  he  caught  the  fever  a  little — the  longest-headed 
will  get  it,  you  know ;  and  more  on  account  of  that  niece 
of  his  than  anything  else,  he  gave  me  a  few  hundreds  to 
turn  into  thousands,  and — and,"  he  concluded  defiantly, 
looking  away  from  the  contempt  of  Davenant's  eyes,  "  I've 
got  to  make  some  payments  there,  among  others,  and  I 
haven't  the  money  to  make  them.  There  you  have  it." 

"  So  that  is  what  you  were  doing  those  September  even 
ings  that  we  sat  by  his  fire  and  smoked  his  pipes  ?"  said 
Davenant  slowly. 

"  Confound  you,  Davenant !"  said  Needham  in  a  burst 
of  humiliated  remorse.  "  I  won't  let  you  or  any  man  talk 
to  me  as  if  I  lay  in  wait  to  beat  an  old  man  out  of  his  hard- 
earned  savings  if  I  am  down  on  my  luck !  I  did  it  to  make 
him  more  comfortable — that's  God's  truth." 

" God's  truth !"  repeated  Davenant.  He  spoke  quietly, 
and  the  hesitation  of  his  speech  was  increased  rather  than 
lessened,  but  its  force  was  none  the  less  unmistakable. 
"This  is  a  crime  that  you  have  committed,  Needham — a 
crime.  I  don't  object  to  your  playing  for  high  stakes  down 
here  in  any  infernal  business  where  everybody  knows  the 
dishonesty  of  the  game — " 


WHITE    BIRCHES  l6l 

"  Go  on,"  said  Needham  sulkily,  "  kick  a  man  when  he's 
down — it's  the  safest  time." 

"  But  that  fine  old  fellow  up  there  !  To  take  the  money 
that  he  has  won  by  hard  work,  of  which  you  men  down 
here  know  not  the  first  stroke  or  indication — money  that  he 
has  wrung  out  of  a  reluctant  earth  and  kept  by  actual  pri 
vation — and  I'm  not  giving  you  a  fancy  sketch  of  a  New 
England  farmer,  either,  I'm  talking  of  what  \know — and  that 
you  have  tossed  into  your  game  of  taking  out  of  somebody 
else's  pocket" — Needham  sprang  to  his  feet  and  struck  the 
table  with  his  fist,  but  Davenant  did  not  stop  and  he  was 
not  interrupted — "the  funds  to  buy  what  nobody  owns — 
when  you  run  a  risk  of  losing  this,  that  he  looks  on  as 
an  assurance  of  future  comfort — you  commit  a  crime." 

His  indignation  had  carried  him  further  than  he  had 
meant  to  go.  It  was  true  that  it  was  in  Denver  Trent's 
person  that  he  felt  the  wrong  and  the  injustice  of  it,  but  the 
knowledge  that  it  was  not  he  alone  that  would  suffer — the 
thought  of  Rhodope — had  stirred  him  to  a  degree  of  emo 
tion  that  he  rarely  permitted  himself  to  reach.  "  The  only 
excuse  for  you,"  he  concluded,  "  is  that  it  is  not  the  crime  of 
an  individual,  but  that  of  a  body  of  men— which  ought  to 
make  it  worse,  but  doesn't." 

"  Why  don't  you  add  a  few  more  bits  of  information  and 
then  send  for  the  police?"  asked  Needham,  still  sullenly. 
"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  No,  it  isn't  all,"  answered  Davenant  in  another  tone, 
his  oddly  attractive  smile  coming  back  for  an  instant  to  his 
lips.  "  How  much  must  you  have  ?" 

Needham  looked  up  quickly  from  the  chair  he  had 
dropped  into  after  his  explosion  of  temper. 

"  I  believe  you're  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world," 
he  said. 

"  If  you  go  on  believing  things  of  that  sort  without  look- 
ii 


1 62  WHITE   BIRCHES 

ing  into  them  you'll  never  keep  out  of  trouble,"  observed 
Davenant  coolly.  "  Now  look  here." 

It  needed  but  a  few  minutes  more  to  bring  the  interview 
to  a  close,  and  Davenant,  declining  to  lunch  with  Need- 
ham,  whose  sense  of  relief  had  restored  a  languishing  ap 
petite,  left  him  with  a  mild  amusement  underlying  his  half- 
contemptuous  interest.  He  was  sorry  for  him — his  volatil 
ity  and  want  of  steadfast  purpose  in  any  direction  drove  him 
from  one  excitement  to  another,  almost  of  necessity,  but  he 
could  not  pardon  him  the  unscrupulous  thoughtlessness 
which  had  threatened  to  wreck  the  modest  and  dearly 
bought  prosperity  of  a  man  like  Denver  Trent,  with  that  of 
his  adopted  children.  Jib,  of  course,  could  make  his  own 
way,  but  Rhodope —  ! 

"  I  am  several  kinds  of  a  fool,"  he  remarked  to  himself, 
without  bitterness,  at  this  point,  as  he  crossed  one  of  the 
unfashionable  avenues.  "  I  could  have  knocked  Needham 
down  when  I  heard  his  blessed  statements,  and  yet  I  was 
perfectly  conscious  that  I  was  rilled  with  unmitigated  grat 
ification  that  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  something  for 
Rhodope  Trent.  Something  that  she  will  never  know 
about  either.  Of  course,"  he  continued  to  speculate,  with 
his  smallest  smile,  "  I'd  rather  she  would  know.  If  she 
could  find  it  out  in  some  way  utterly  unknown  to  me,  and 
reflecting  much  credit  upon  my  careful  method  of  conceal 
ment,  and  in  a  burst  of  gratitude  should  hail  me  Benefactor 
and  Friend — I  should  like  that  better.  But  I  don't  know 
just  whom  I  could  depend  upon  to  tell  her  without  letting 
me  suspect — Hullo  !" 

The  interjection  was  addressed  to  a  small  girl  carrying  a 
large  basket  and  draped  in  a  shawl  folded  cornerwise,  and 
which,  being  intended  for  a  full-grown  woman,  dragged  fore 
and  aft,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  hold  it  up.  The  com 
plexity  of  the  situation  was  momentarily  relieved  by  her 


WHITE    BIRCHES  163 

falling  apparently  flat  on  her  face  so  suddenly  that  Dave- 
nant  nearly  fell  over  her.  He  picked  her  up  and  waited  for 
her  to  cry ;  but  though  she  had  barked  her  wrist  and  banged 
her  knee,  with  the  patience  of  a  frequently  barked  and 
banged  childhood  she  did  not  weep,  the  luxury  of  indis 
criminate  grief  being  one  of  the  many  confined  to  the 
wealthy  classes.  She  carried  her  wrist  to  her  mouth,  while 
she  carefully  examined  the  contents  of  the  basket,  after 
which  she  looked  up  at  Davenant,  whose  assistance  she  had 
received  with  as  thorough  inattention  as  if  it  had  fallen 
from  the  skies. 

"  Nothing  injured,  I  hope,"  he  said  politely.  As  her  large 
eyes  and  small  face  remained  quite  unintelligent,  he  repeated 
the  substance  of  his  inquiry,  and  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Does  your  wrist  hurt  you  ?" 

She  looked  at  her  wrist  and  then  at  him  with  a  wise  little 
smile. 

"  Not  as  much  as  a  lickin',"  she  replied. 

"  No,"  he  assented,  "  not  nearly  as  much." 

As  he  spoke  his  thoughts  flew  back  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  the  drollness  of  the  contrast  to  the  other  distress  he  had 
just  been  witness  of,  and  the  different  manner  in  which  it 
had  been  borne.  Somehow  this  seemed  the  more  real. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  a  small  piece  of  money  which  I  am 
going  to  give  you.  It  comes  under  the  head  of  indiscrimi 
nate  alms-giving,  which  has  gone  by,  and,  moreover,  I  rather 
hope  you  will  spend  it  foolishly." 

The  child's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  coin,  and  she  did  not 
understand  a  word  he  said,  but  she  listened,  fascinated  by 
his  smile. 

"  In  order  that  I  may  not  be  too  unenlightened,"  he  went 
on,  "  I  give  it  for  an  object,  the  promotion  of  stoicism 
among  the  poor.  I  am  glad  to  contribute  something  tow 
ards  its  support.  It  comes  high,  but  the  poor  must  have  it." 


164  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Without  a  word  the  child  took  the  money  and  went 
rapidly  on,  the  point  of  the  old  shawl  dipping  here  and 
there  in  wanton  irregularity,  her  swiftness  suggesting  the 
presence  of  a  fear  that  the  gentleman  might  think  better 
of  it. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  that  a  half-formed  intention 
that  had  been  floating  about  in  Davenant's  mind  ever  since 
the  night  before  took  a  shape  which  led  him  to  Needham's 
house  up -town.  He  must  call  on  Florence,  to  be  barely 
civil,  and  as  a  result  of  his  attention  so  lately  directed  to 
the  Needham  family,  and  a  sort  of  curiosity  to  note  the  dif 
ference  between  the  husband  and  the  wife,  due  to  his  habits 
of  observation,  he  was  led  to  go  there  the  same  day. 

Mrs.  Needham  was  at  home,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
found  himself  by  her  daintly  appointed  tea-table  and  her 
still  more  daintily  appointed  self.  She  wore  a  somewhat 
daring  tea-gown  of  pale  yellow  with  shaded  effects  of  golden- 
brown  velvet,  and  here  and  there,  at  odd  times,  a  good  deal 
of  cream-colored  lace.  The  result  with  her  blonde  hair  and 
soft  complexion  within  the  light  of  the  many  lamps  was  dis 
tinctly  fetching.  Her  thoughts  were  pleasant  ones.  A 
visitor  of  social  prominence,  who  was  a  great  bore,  had  just 
left  the  room,  and  although  Florence  was  of  too  lofty  a 
nature  ever  to  be  really  bored  to  the  annihilating  degree 
suffered  by  less  elevated  spirits,  even  she  could  not  prevent 
a  lulling  sense  of  physical  relief  from  permeating  her  re 
lieved  frame.  She  was  going  to  the  Adell  musicale  this 
evening,  and  although,  to  be  sure,  it  was  a  large  one  and  a 
lot  of  people  were  asked,  still  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  go 
to  the  Adell's  at  all,  and  she  would  wear  a  gown  which 
would  go  far  to  make  such  discriminating  people  regret  not 
having  asked  her  oftener.  The  door  was  opened  by  the 
servant,  and  she  looked  up  and  saw  Tom  Davenant.  For 
the  moment  she  felt  that  she  was  really  in  perigee. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  165 

"Why,  Tom,"  she  exclaimed,  coming  forward  with  a 
charming  impulsiveness.  "  I  mean,  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Davenant?"  she  supplemented  with  her  sparkling  laugh. 

"Well,  Florence,"  said  Davenant,  and  then  with  imme 
diate  imitation  of  her  own  manner,  "  I  mean,  Very  well,  I 
thank  you,  Mrs.  Needham." 

She  was  prettier  even  than  she  had  been  in  the  summer. 
The  finish,  the  luxury  of  her  surroundings,  the  soft -tinted 
illuminations,  the  perfume,  the  studied  and  undisturbed 
perfection  of  color  and  outline,  suited  her  better  than  the 
freer,  plainer,  natural  surroundings  of  country  life. 

He  looked  at  his  chair,  then  at  hers,  with  a  slight  anxiety, 
after  they  were  seated. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  had  taken  the  most  becoming  chair,"  he 
murmured,  "  I  knew  you'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  had.  It 
doesn't  matter  to  me,  you  know — when  you've  once  made 
up  your  mind  to  be  good  rather  than  pretty,  you  don't  mind 
things  like  that." 

"  I  thank  the  Providence  that  on  my  birth  has  smiled," 
she  said  gayly,  "  that  I  can  be  pretty  in  any  kind  of  chair, 
and  as  for  my  being  good — " 

"  That  kind  of  chair  hasn't  been  invented  yet,"  finished 
Davenant  lazily.  "  The  stool  of  penitence  comes  first  be 
sides." 

Florence  laid  down  her  sugar-tongs  and  looked  at  him. 
She  felt  a  little  reckless  this  afternoon — success  is  apt  to 
make  us  so.  She  fancied  that  even  a  confession  of  wasted 
hopes  from  Tom  Davenant  might  be  impending. 

"  Do  you  really  think  that  I  have  much  to  repent  ?"  she 
demanded,  looking  into  his  eyes.  She  dwelt  slightly  on 
the  first  pronoun. 

"  Oh,  my,  yes !"  answered  Davenant  easily,  as  he  looked 
back.  "  And  wouldn't  you  be  sorry  if  you  hadn't !  Show 
me  the  woman  that  wouldn't.  Who  is  it  says  one  of  a 


1 66  WHITE    BIRCHES 

woman's  sweetest  pleasures  is  to  cause  regret  ?  it's  the  same 
thing." 

"  One  certainly  need  not  weep  over  having  caused  that 
sort  of  regret.  It  doesn't  last  long  enough  for  one  to  get 
at  one's  handkerchief." 

"  Most  beautiful  things  are  evanescent,"  he  admitted. 

Florence  was  a  little  provoked,  and  she  shut  the  lid  of 
her  tea-pot  with  a  snap. 

"  I  believe  you  come  to  see  me  just  to  laugh  at  me,"  she 
asserted. 

"  It  is  you  I  come  to  see,  just  the  same."  There  was  a 
touch  of  seriousness  in  his  tone  which  mollified  her.  That 
which  he  said  was  true  at  least.  She  glanced  up  in  quick 
recognition,  and  then  went,  on  pouring  tea.  Her  sparkling 
fingers,  her  sparkling  eyes,  and  her  sparkling  silver  pro 
duced  a  general  effect  of  gleam  and  glitter. 

"  You  ought  to  keep  smoked  glass  for  the  benefit  of  your 
visitors,"  he  said  as  he  took  his  cup.  "  You  are  a  strain 
on  the  eyes." 

"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  you  have  always  said  to  me," 
she  pouted.  "  Always  about  the  effect  I  produce,  or  wish 
to  produce.  Just  as  if  that  was  all  there  is  of  me." 

Davenant  checked  an  impulse  to  say  that  he  guessed  it 
was. 

"  Well,  you  like  a  successful  effect,  don't  you  ?"  he  sug 
gested. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  I  have  a  great  deal  in  my  life 
that  people  don't  understand,"  she  averred,  with  a  trans 
parent  little  sigh.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  I  did." 

"  Now  you  take  my  advice,  Florence,"  said  Davenant 
honestly,  "  and  don't  you  go  in  for  being  a  genuine,  candid 
sort  of  person — it  wouldn't  do  at  all.  I  know  it's  the  fash 
ion,  but  one  has  to  have  certain  natural  qualifications." 

It  was  singular  how  old  habits  asserted  themselves  after 


WHITE    BIRCHES  167 

all  these  years.  He  talked  to  her  with  the  old  ease  and 
familiarity,  and  she  listened  with  the  shrewd  half  -  compre 
hension  with  which  she  had  always  listened  to  him.  Only 
in  him  was  wanting  that  which  had  once  made  their  talk — 
his  lecturing  and  her  speculations — but  the  foam  on  the 
current — the  passionate  longing  which  had  thrilled  every 
moment,  to  touch  her  hand,  her  cheek,  her  hair,  and  to 
hear  her  say  she  loved  him.  That  deep  undercurrent  had 
swept  itself  away,  but  on  the  surface  of  the  quieter  pool 
the  bubbles  of  laughter,  admonition,  and  resentment  tossed 
as  lightly  as  ever.  She  was  not  in  the  least  angry  at  his 
last  remark.  Instead,  she  turned  it  over  in  her  mind. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  she  mused,  looking  at  him 
thoughtfully. 

He  nodded.  Evidently  what  he  had  said  influenced  her, 
but  she  changed  the  subject. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  musicale  to-night  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  believe  I  am.  Who  is  the  young  woman  they  have 
there — from  the  South  or  something  ?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  She  had  not  known  there 
was  to  be  any  one  of  the  sort,  which  was  an  occasion  for  a 
sudden,  sharp  regret.  She  was  glad  she  had  found  out  be 
fore  she  went. 

"  She's  an  original  young  person,  I  believe.  Unconven 
tional  and  clever.  Never  has  been  anywhere  before.  It's 
quite  a  card  to  have  that  sort  of  person  at  one's  entertain 
ments  nowadays.  Rouses  the  jaded  interest." 

Florence  stirred  her  tea,  and  thought. 

"  So  it  is,"  she  assented.  Davenant  had  spoken  idly, 
with  no  thought  of  the  effect  of  his  words,  but  now  as  he 
noticed  Mrs.  Needham's  thoughtfulness,  and  recognized 
with  amusement  the  fact  that  she  was  running  hastily 
over  in  her  mind  all  the  unconventional  people  she  knew, 


1 68  WHITE    BIRCHES 

with  the  idea  of  finding  somebody  to  present  at  her  next 
entertainment,  a  sudden  suggestion  came  to  him.  Was  not 
this  just  the  opportunity  that  Medcott  had  wished  for  ? 
He  did  not  stop  to  consider  all  the  manifest  disadvantages 
of  the  scheme.  For  one  of  the  few  times  in  his  life,  Dave- 
nant  spoke  from  impulse. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  Rhodope  Trent  down  here  ?"  he 
asked  lazily  ;  "  she'd  combine  well." 

"  Rhodope  Trent !"  repeated  Florence,  sitting  up  straight 
in  her  chair. 

"  Yes,  rather  unusual  type  of  beauty — would  look  well 
in  your  parlor.  Out  of  place,  but  that  is  interesting  and 
would  make  you  the  more  harmonious,  you  know." 

Davenant  spoke  indifferently,  but  he  watched  with  in 
terest  the  effect  of  what  he  said. 

"  She'd  have  a  pleasant  winter.  I  fancy  she'd  attract 
some  attention.  I  admire  her  uncommonly  myself." 

"  So  does  Mr.  Medcott." 

"  Yes,  so  does  Medcott.  He'll  probably  want  to  make 
a  study  of  her." 

It  was  an  unscrupulous  proceeding,  this  of  Davenant's, 
but  the  idea  having  once  recommended  itself  to  him,  he 
gave  the  same  attention  to  carrying  it  out,  by  playing  upon 
Florence  Needham's  well-known  characteristics,  as  he  would 
have  given  to  the  development  of  a  piece  of  literary  work. 
It  amused  him  to  see  the  effect  of  his  suggestions.  To 
Florence  the  idea  came  also  as  the  solving  of  a  problem. 
Its  fulfilment  would  insure  Tom  Davenant's  presence ; 
more  than  that,  it  would  bring  that  of  Austin  Medcott. 
What  had  seemed  the  night  before  so  difficult  of  attain 
ment  would  follow  in  the  natural  course  of  things.  Her 
feeling  for  Medcott  had  drowned  for  the  moment  her  jeal 
ousy  of  Rhodope.  She  must  see  him— of  that  only  was 
she  conscious.  And  then  the  social  advantage  of  bring- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  169 

ing  forward  a  country  girl,  over  whom  a  man  of  letters  like 
Davenant  and  an  artist  like  Medcott  had  lost  their  heads. 
Why  had  she  not  thought  of  it  before  ? 

"  I  think  I  shall  ask  her  to  come,"  she  said. 

Then  their  talk  fell  naturally  on  the  valley  and  the  past 
summer,  and  Mrs.  Needham  guessed  why  it  was  that  Med 
cott  had  not  answered  her  letter  when  Davenant  told  her 
how  he  had  been  shut  away  from  the  city  and  all  news  of 
it  for  weeks.  She  would  have  liked  Davenant  to  dwell  on 
him  and  his  affairs — she  liked  even  to  hear  his  name — but 
he  did  not. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  in  Heaven's  clear  law 
With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 
From  its  own  steadfastness  : — a  holy  awe 
For  holy  things." 

"  They  do  best,  who  if  they  cannot  but  admit  Love,  yet  make  it 
keep  quarter." 

IT  was  Sunday  noon.  Service  in  the  little  church  was 
nearly  over.  Deacon  Bunt,  who  sat  in  the  front  seat,  and 
listened  to  the  word  of  God  with  kindly  tolerance  every 
Sunday,  glanced  at  the  hymn-book  to  see  that  it  was  in 
readiness  for  the  last  hymn.  Mrs.  Roble,  a  large  woman, 
whose  breathing  had  been  audible  at  intervals  during  the 
sermon,  discomposed  herself  into  a  final  effort  of  atten 
tion. 

Tom  Furwin  shifted  a  morsel  of  tobacco,  which  had  been 
administered  surreptitiously  within  the  last  few  minutes, 
from  one  cheek  to  the  other,  and,  meeting  Rhodope  Trent's 
eyes  at  that  critical  moment,  colored  violently  under  what 
he  felt  was  her  disapproval,  and  moved  his  heavy  boots 
noisily  from  a  secluded  spot  under  the  bench.  Denver 
Trent's  fine,  gray  head  was  thrown  back  a  little,  as  his  up 
turned  eyes  followed  the  clergyman's  gestures,  the  direct 
ness  of  his  attention  itself  an  inspiration  in  such  an  au 
dience.  With  the  choir,  to  which  were  dedicated  those 
seats,  at  right  angles  to  the  others,  immediately  about  the 
melodeon,  sat  Elizabeth  French.  She  had  become  a  little 


WHITE    BIRCHES  171 

sleepy,  but  just  now  she  caught  Jib  Trent's  unsmiling  eyes, 
and  flushed  into  a  perturbed  wakefulness.  Against  the 
whitewashed  wall,  her  ears  hearing  the  clergyman's  words 
and  her  thoughts  wandering  abroad,  leaned  Rhodope.  She 
had  not  even  marked  the  delinquencies  of  Tom  Furwin, 
when  her  glance  had  revealed  his  shortcomings  to  his  own 
startled  consciousness.  She  had  let  her  gaze  slip  from  the 
speaker  to  Tom,  and  from  him  to  the  uncurtained  window 
against  which  a  pine-tree  shook  now  and  then  its  snow- 
weighted  branches,  and,  scarcely  conscious  of  this  small 
breach  of  attention,  had  returned  to  the  legitimate  occu 
pation  of  the  hour,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  preacher's 
face.  The  little  church  was  a  cheerful,  peaceful  place  in 
summer,  when  to  the  picturesqueness  of  an  utter  simplic 
ity,  which  is,  after  all,  as  symbolical  as  sumptuous  decora 
tion,  were  added  the  sweet  scents  of  the  fragrant  season  of 
the  year,  and  the  lazy  hum  of  the  holiday  of  the  insect 
world,  coming  in  through  the  open  door  and  the  raised 
window.  Then  the  now  snow-weighted  pine  gently  waved 
green  plumes  in  the  sunlight,  promising  shade  and  cool 
ness  ;  then  the  squares  of  free  air  within  the  window-frames, 
towards  which  the  eyes  of  impatient  youth  so  often  turned, 
throbbed  with  the  promise  and  exultance  of  welcoming  Nat 
ure,  and  the  fancy  wandered  beyond  the  waving  branches 
and  the  blue  sky,  there  visible,  to  unseen  delicious  freedom 
and  delights.  Then  the  religious  feeling  that  stirred  the 
exhortations  of  the  preacher,  and  that  breathes  through  the 
Christian  hymns,  seemed  a  natural  and  simple  emotion. 
The  world  was  a  world  of  peace  and  pleasantness,  Nature 
was  at  one  with  the  Christ  who  so  loved  it  and  so  studied 
its  beautiful  appropriateness ;  the  universe  was  God  in 
spired,  and  thrilled  and  glowed  with  the  love  and  the  light 
that  is  about  us,  and  over  us,  and  beneath  us  like  a  gar 
ment. 


172  WHITE    BIRCHES 

But  to-day  the  glow  and  the  freedom  were  absent.  In 
winter  the  doors  and  windows  were  shut  tight  and  the  out 
side  air,  when  it  entered,  was  an  unwelcome  intruder.  The 
heat  from  the  iron  stove  reddened  the  cheeks,  made  the 
eyes  heavy,  and  benumbed  the  senses  of  the  hard-working 
men  and  women  who  sat  rigidly  upright  in  painful  consci 
entiousness,  or  drooped  in  the  relaxation  of  forced  inaction. 
And  up  there  in  the  pulpit  some  one  was  telling  them  to  do 
certain  things  that  were  very  hard,  and  utterly  opposed  to 
all  naturalness  and  longings  of  man  whatever. 

"  Be  not  weary  in  well-doing,"  exhorted  the  preacher. 

It  was  his  concluding  sentence  that  he  was  beginning 
with  this  repetition  of  his  text.  Rhodope  had  followed  his 
words,  sometimes  absently,  sometimes  attentively,  and  sud 
denly  it  seemed  as  if  her  whole  being  was  permeated  by  a 
sense  of  the  weariness  of  this  very  struggle  that  all  the 
teachings  and  interests  of  her  life  were  holding  her  to.  If 
there  were  more  to  fight,  it  would  not  be  so  difficult — but 
who  is  able  to  stand  up  against  weariness  ? 

Four  or  five  months  ago  it  had  not  so  come  home  to  her 
— this  realization  of  the  effort  of  trying  to  do  the  best  that 
in  her  lay.  It  had  seemed  that  her  life  was  opening  and 
developing  into  what  were  its  best  possibilities,  in  joy  and 
calm.  Fulfilment  after  fulfilment  seemed  to  lie  before  her  • 
the  religion  which  had  long  been  part  of  her  existence  had 
appeared  to  manifest  itself  in  the  assurance  of  happiness. 
But  of  late  this  inspiration  had  somehow  disappeared.  Life 
seemed  weary  and  yet  restless.  The  apostle  knew  of  what 
he  spoke.  It  is  not  the  satiety  of  evil,  it  is  not  the  fatigue 
of  labor,  it  is  the  weight  of  exhausted  enthusiasm  that  bur 
dens  the  hands  of  those  who  would  lift  the  world.  The 
clergyman  closed  his  sermon,  offered  a  short  prayer,  and 
with  much  shuffling  of  feet  and  the  usual  air  of  factitious 
activity  the  audience  rose  for  the  last  hymn.  Elizabeth,  as 


WHITE    BIRCHES  173 

she  shook  out  her  draperies,  cast  a  furtive  look  at  Jib,  but 
he  was  stolidly  gazing  at  his  hymn-book,  and  with  a  little 
toss  of  her  head,  thoroughly  to  convince  herself  that  she 
did  not  in  the  least  care  whether  he  looked  or  not,  she  ad 
dressed  herself  to  song.  Every  syllable  uttered  by  her 
fresh  young  voice  reached  Jib's  ears  so  acutely  that  it 
seemed  to  fill  his  brain.  It  was  as  if  no  one  else  was  sing 
ing,  so  conscious  was  he  of  the  clear,  sweet  soprano  that 
lifted  the  somewhat  depressing  words  of  the  hymn  into  an 
atmosphere  of  encouragement,  almost  of  gayety.  He  knew 
just  how  she  was  holding  her  book,  and  just  how  often 
she  glanced  away  from  the  page,  and  yet  he  never  looked 
from  his  own  book  upon  which  the  printed  words  met  his 
unseeing  eyes,  while  they  came  with  such  swift  interpreta 
tion  to  his  ears.  The  benediction  was  pronounced,  and 
the  little  audience  filtered  out  through  the  door,  beyond 
which  there  began  to  be  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells  and  much 
stamping  off  of  snow.  Rhodope  looked  anxiously  at  Jib 
and  then  quickly  towards  Elizabeth,  who  was  exchanging 
elaborate  civilities  with  Tom  Furwin's  mother.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  her  brother's  arm. 

"  Wait  for  Elizabeth,  Jib,"  she  said.  Jib  did  not  reply, 
but  she  knew  he  had  heard  her.  He  did  not  shake  off  her 
hand  or  in  the  least  resent  her  suggestion,  but  he  went 
quietly  on  his  way  down  the  aisle. 

"Jib,"  she  repeated,  "now  you  wait  for  Elizabeth." 
He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  in  tolerant  kindliness,  and 
she  dropped  her  hand  and  shook  her  head  regretfully.  She 
knew  this  mood  of  her  brother's  very  well.  It  was  rare  and 
it  was  one  against  which  beating  was  in  vain.  He  would 
not  answer  her  further,  and  he  would  not  be  influenced  by 
her — he  would  take  his  own  way.  It  was  now  and  then 
after  this  fashion  that  Jib  Trent  evinced  a  sternness  of  pur 
pose  that  seemed  utterly  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  which, 


174  WHITE   BIRCHES 

while  she  lamented  it,  called  forth  from  Rhodope  a  de 
votion  which  would  not  have  been  so  complete  had  he 
been  always  as  yielding  as  he  sometimes  seemed.  And 
it  was  this  trait  that  had  caused  Denver  Trent  to  observe 
with  a  chuckle  that  "  Generally  speakin'  it  was  awful 
easy  to  tow  Jib  home,  but  now  and  then  when  you  picked 
up  the  rope  you  found  he'd  got  up  steam  to  go  t'other 
way." 

Outside,  the  white  snow  stretched  itself  over  the  hills, 
flung  the  ends  of  its  mantle  across  the  hollows,  and  swept 
with  its  fingers  the  leafless  trees  and  the  stalwart  pines. 
Heavy,  awkward  sleighs  stood  about  the  entrance ;  their 
owners  were  climbing  in  and  tucking  dingy  buffalo-robes 
about  their  feet.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  excitement 
when  Mrs.  Roble  was  being  assisted  into  a  quite  narrow 
sleigh.  It  seemed  once  or  twice  as  if  it  wasn't  going  to  be 
done.  Several  persons  of  wide  sympathies  desisted  from 
their  own  similar  efforts  to  watch  hers.  When  she  was 
fairly  in  and  had  turned  about  with  the  genial  smile  with 
which  people,  stout  and  unashamed,  reward  such  friendly 
interest,  there  was  a  general  sense  of  relief.  The  rude 
sleigh-bells  jangled,  and  slowly  the  group  on  the  wooden 
steps  grew  smaller. 

"I  never  could  abide  that  kind  of  a  stove  anyway,"  said 
a  familiar  voice  just  behind  Rhodope.  "  It's  one  of  them 
stoves  that  the  more  fuel  you  put  into  it,  the  more  it  just 
kinder  winks,  and  you'd  never  know  it  had  had  anything  at 
all.  You  can  git  it  red-hot  if  you  want  to,  and. then  you  can 
sit  and  freeze." 

"  I  thought  t'was  pipin'  this  mornin',"  said  a  mild  voice. 

"Well,  't  warn't,"  was  the  uncompromising  rejoinder. 
"  'T  warn't  a  mite  above  sixty-five.  I  felt  cold." 

"Well,  I  felt  hot,"  said  the  other  with  more  firmness  than 
would  have  been  anticipated  from  such  a  voice. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  175 

/"  retorted  the  first  speaker.  "  'Tain't  any  sign 
how  ye  feel.  If  there'd  been  a  thermomety  there,  I  tell 
ye  it  wouldn't  have  riz  above  sixty-five — I  'ain't  been  so 
cold  this  season." 

"How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Matilda,"  said  Rhodope,  turning 
around,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"  I  didn't  hardly  know  as  I  was  either.  I  come  over  for 
a  little  change.  Ashur  Dust  sleighed  me  over  yesterday. 
He  said  'twas  dretful  good  sleighin'.  I  guess  we'd  'a'  come 
better  on  wheels.  We  slumped  and  slumped." 

"  How's  Tim  ?"  asked  Rhodope ;  "  I  don't  see  him  much 
in  the  winter." 

"I  guess  there  ain't  anythin'  the  matter  with  him.  I 
ain't  very  well." 

"Why,  I'm  sorry—" 

"  Oh,  there  ain't  any  use  bein'  sorry.  My  food  don't  set 
well,  that's  all.  I  came  over  to  see  how  Roxana  Dust's 
would  go.  It's  my  belief  she  raises  with  yeast-cake.  I 
can  smell  a  yeast-cake  as  fur  as  I  can  see  it.  She's  stopped 
to  speak  to  the  minister,  and  Ashur  he's  gone  off  after  the 
sleigh.  I  can't  hear  more'n  half  that  minister  says.  I 
ain't  deaf  either.  I  guess  he  ain't  got  much  of  a  delivery. 
That's  Marcella  Brown's  girl,  ain't  it  ?" 

Out  of  the  church-door  came  Elizabeth.  She  was  talk 
ing  with  two  of  the  village  youths,  but  her  glance  scanned 
swiftly  the  group  outside,  and  then  followed  Jib's  figure  up 
the  road.  His  pace  was  leisurely  but  unloitering.  Her 
voice  fell  a  moment  and  then  rose  in  its  gayest  tones  as  the 
two  boys  went  forward  with  her  to  the  old  sleigh  which 
Ashur  Dust  was  just  bringing  up. 

"Yes,"  said  Rhodope,  quietly,  as  she  watched  the  pretty 
girl,  "that's  Elizabeth." 

"  I  didn't  see  her  this  mornin' — she  spent  the  night  over 
to  Clock's,"  continued  Miss  Spore.  "Well,  I  never  see 


176  WHITE    BIRCHES 

such  airs  as  she  puts  on.  And  what  ails  that  hat?  You 
don't  suppose  her  head's  made  one-sided,  do  you  ?" 

Elizabeth  paused  just  as  she  was  climbing  into  the  sleigh. 
"  Where's  Miss  Spore  ?"  she  asked. 

"  She's  comin',"  answered  Ashur.  "  You  get  up  here  along 
of  me." 

Elizabeth  looked  back  and  saw  Rhodope  and  Miss  Ma 
tilda  ;  they  were  almost  the  last  people  on  the  steps.  She 
turned  away  from  the  somewhat  inefficient  youths  and  waited 
for  them. 

While  Miss  Spore  climbed  into  the  sleigh  assisted  by  the 
even-tempered  Roxana,  and  remarking  that  she'd  rather 
climb  into  a  cistern,  Elizabeth  said  with  an  affectation  of 
entire  indifference, 

"  Seems  to  me  your  brother  is  in  a  dreadful  hurry  to  get 
home,  Rhodope." 

"I  don't  believe  he  is,"  answered  Rhodope,  looking 
straight  into  Elizabeth's  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  suspi 
cious  mistiness.  "  I  don't  believe  he's  in  any  hurry  at  all." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  isn't  anything  to  me,"  and  she  threw  back 
her  head  with  a  trifle  more  spirit  than  was  called  for  by 
complete  indifference. 

"  Isn't  it  ?"  said  Rhodope  slowly.    "  Then  I'm  very  sorry." 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her  a  moment  as  if  she  would  speak, 
but  as  the  inefficient  youths  called  out,  "  I  guess  we  can 
h'ist  you  in  now,  Miss  Elizabeth,"  she  bit  her  lip,  turned 
away,  and  climbed  lightly  up  to  the  place  by  Ashur's  side. 
From  there  she  nodded  a  farewell,  and  they  lumbered  down 
the  rough  road  with  that  apparent  gayety  that  sleigh-bells 
lend  to  any  sort  of  locomotion,  however  impeded.  Rhodope 
looked  after  them  a  moment.  The  glare  of  the  noon  sun 
dazzled  her  eyes,  but  up  the  road  she  could  see  Jib's  dark 
figure  against  the  white  fields,  swinging  strongly  on.  Be 
fore  and  behind  him  were  other  dark  figures,  little  groups 


WHITE    BIRCHES  177 

of  two  and  three,  but  he  joined  none  of  them,  greeting  one 
and  another,  but  passing  by.  She  wanted  to  run  after  him 
and  walk  home  with  him ;  it  should  not  be  that  they  should 
both  be  lonely  while  they  had  each  other.  But  she  checked 
the  impulse,  and  with  a  farewell  glance  at  the  shining  peaks 
that  stood  about  her,  she  entered  the  church-door  again, 
her  Sunday  duties  not  yet  over. 

Meanwhile  the  Dust  sleigh  reached  and  passed  the  groups 
which  were  making  their  way  along  the  road  and  narrow 
footpath.  As  Jib  raised  his  eyes  in  response  to  the  greet 
ing  called  out  by  the  genial  Ashur,  his  smile  faded  sudden 
ly  and  his  eyes  grew  stern,  and  yet  he  caught  no  spectacle 
more  antagonistic  than  a  pretty,  rather  pale  face,  looking 
back  from  the  front  seat  with  eyes  which  tried  to  be  cool 
and  defiant,  and  which  succeeded  instead  in  being  admira 
bly  pleading  and  decidedly  pathetic.  Jib  pushed  his  hands 
farther  into  his  pockets  and  walked  doggedly  on,  and  pa 
thos  and  defiance  alike  vanished,  and  nothing  remained 
where  they  had  been,  save  the  back  of  a  little  red  hat  which 
sped  along  the  whiteness  of  the  way.  This  change  in  the 
relations  which  had  existed  between  Jib  and  Elizabeth  was 
not  that  of  a  moment.  It  had  begun  in  the  early  autumn, 
when  Elizabeth's  natural  coquetry  had  made  itself  evident 
among  her  numerous  admirers.  The  young  fellow  of  whom 
Florence  had  written  to  Medcott  had  been  one  of  several 
who  hastened  to  declare  themselves  her  victims,  and  it  can 
not  be  asserted  that  she  showed  any  becoming  regret  at  the 
devastations  which  followed  her  footsteps.  It  was  some 
time  before  Jib  was  roused  to  resentment.  His  was  not  a 
nature  to  be  speedily  kindled  into  petty  jealousy,  and,  as 
has  been  said,  at  first  the  all-absorbing  nature  of  his  love 
for  her  left  no  room  for  speculations  and  requirements  re 
garding  her  feeling  for  him.  Naturally  this  state  of  things 
had  not  lasted  forever,  but  certain  admissions  on  Elizabeth's 

12 


1 78  WHITE    BIRCHES 

part  having  satisfied  his  unsuspecting  trust  in  her,  his  se 
curity  was  not  easily  shaken  by  the  various  irrelevancies  of 
his  sweetheart.  Elizabeth  herself,  led  into  these  irrelevan 
cies  by  vanity,  a  most  natural  love  of  experiment,  and  a  gen 
uine  liking  for  amusement  and  those  who  provided  her  with 
it,  watched  the  effect  upon  him  with  a  security  as  great,  if 
not  as  wise,  as  his  own.  Somewhat  piqued  by  his  apparent 
indifference,  she  had  thrown  further  provocation  in  his  way, 
and  when  he  was  finally  roused  to  remonstrance,  she  re 
torted  with  feminine  daring,  held  out  no  promise  of  amend 
ment,  and,  when  he  grew  angry,  waited  confidently  for  his 
anger  to  subside  and  for  renewed  terms  of  amity.  A  wiser 
woman  would  have  paused  before  reaching  this  point,  for  it 
was  here  that  surprise  lay  in  wait  for  her.  It  has  been  fre 
quently  observed  that  an  unsuspecting  nature,  once  awak 
ened,  is  more  difficult  to  lull  again  to  slumber  than  one 
more  easily  startled.  The  outbreak  had  come  just  before 
Elizabeth  had  left  the  valley,  and  frightened  and  regretful 
she  had  gone  away  without  an  opportunity  to  set  things 
right.  The  fact  that  she  had  not  dared  tell  him  that  the 
irresponsible  Schumacher  accompanied  her  half  the  way, 
when  he  learned  it,  added  confirmation  to  Jib's  distrust, 
and  the  summer's  idyl  was  apparently  at  an  end.  This  had 
all  taken  place  during  the  last  half  of  September.  What  of 
struggle  or  regret  followed  for  Jib  it  was  difficult  to  esti 
mate.  Even  Rhodope  could  not  do  more  than  guess  that 
it  had  made  a  great  difference  in  his  life.  He  returned  to 
his  favorite  books,  and  Denver  Trent  watched  him  with 
quiet  interest,  after  half  a  day  of  which  observation  he 
remarked  to  Rhodope,  as  Jib  strolled  out  of  the  room,  that 
"there  warn't  no  sort  of  commentaries  on  any  kind  of  a 
book,  whether  it  was  Scriptures,  or  whether  it  wasn't,  like  a 
little  enlightenin'  experience." 

The  conversation  went  no  further,  but  Rhodope  sighed 


WHITE    BIRCHES  179 

unconsciously  as  she  recognized  the  truth  of  the  assertion 
— possibly  her  mental  application  of  it  was  not  confined  to 
Jib  alone. 

The  long  autumn  passed  with  its  gorgeous  foliage,  its 
biting  frosts,  and  its  cold  winds,  as  did  the  first  months  of 
winter,  and  still,  if  Jib  now  and  then  laid  down  his  book  and 
gazed  idly  at  the  glory  of  the  hills,  and  then  returned  im 
patiently  to  the  page,  no  one  but  himself  knew  that  it  was 
to  gaze  at  a  vision  in  which  the  heroine  of  the  novel,  were 
she  noble  lady,  gypsy  queen,  barbarian  enchantress,  or  vil 
lage  maiden,  appeared  dressed  in  bespangled  garments, 
standing  in  an  open  chariot,  guiding  four  prancing  ponies 
down  a  dusty  street. 

In  January  came  a  letter  from  Marcella  to  her  old  friend, 
Roxana  Dust.  Elizabeth  had  never  been  as  well  since  she 
left  the  valley ;  Nicholas  was  going  to  hunt  up  a  kangaroo 
and  a  few  other  miscellaneous  attractions,  and  she  thought 
she  would  go  with  him.  Would  Roxana  take  Elizabeth  to 
board  for  a  couple  of  months,  so  that  she  might  be  at  ease 
about  her  and  know  that  she  was  among  friends  ?  So  Eliz 
abeth  came  back  to  the  valley,  her  brilliant  beauty  a  little 
paled  ;  and  when  Jib  first  met  her  at  the  post-office  there  was 
a  new  pleading  look  in  the  eyes  that  met  his,  which  affected 
the  beating  of  his  heart  after  a  manner  hitherto  associated 
only  with  precipices,  battles,  and  concealments  under  the 
very  feet  of  the  enemy ;  but  in  spite  of  it  he  had  lifted  his 
cap  and  gone  away  with  the  mail,  while  Elizabeth  had  stood 
looking  after  him  a  moment  and  then  climbed  into  the  Dust 
sleigh,  her  lip  trembling  like  that  of  a  well-scolded  child. 
That  was  two  weeks  ago.  For  one  reason  or  another,  or 
perhaps  with  the  unreasonableness  of  one  who  lets  an  im 
portant  decision  rest  on  the  turn  of  a  card,  she  had  looked 
to  this  particular  Sunday  as  a  day  which  should  clear  away 
the  clouds  which  lay  between  them.  For  one  .thing  it  was 


ISO  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Sunday,  and  Elizabeth  still  held  that  simple  faith  in  the 
Sabbath  as  an  agent  for  good  which  is  rapidly  becoming 
eliminated  from  a  less  hide-bound  generation  under  the  en 
lightenment  of  Sunday  newspapers  and  sacred  concerts. 
Then  she  knew  that  she  should  see  him  at  church,  and  that 
would  be  a  step — she  had  not  been  able  to  go  the  previous 
week  on  account  of  a  storm.  Moreover,  she  knew  she  should 
look  pretty  in  that  particular  bonnet — moreover,  she  didn't 
care  what  was  the  reason,  he  would  come  and  speak  to  her 
and  listen  to  her,  because — because  he  must.  And  now 
she  was  driving  home,  and  he  had  not  spoken  to  her,  and 
the  snow  was  hopelessly  glaring,  and  the  hills  hopelessly 
high,  and  life  was  hopelessly  long  ! 

"  Those  Trents,"  said  Miss  Matilda  Spore,  behind  her, 
"  they're  the  perversest  family  I  ever  did  see.  They'd  rath 
er  walk  than  ride  any  day,  just  to  show  they  ken  do  it.  I 
guess  when  Jib  there's  got  the  rheumatism  he'll  wish  he 
hadn't  kicked  the  snow  'round  so  much.  There  ain't  no 
call  for  a  man  to  have  the  rheumatism  unless  he  wants  to 
get  it  standin'  round  in  puddles." 

"  I  dono  as  Jib's  hardly  responsible  for  the  snow's  bein' 
on  the  way  to  church,"  said  tolerant  Mrs.  Dust. 

"Perhaps  he  ain't,"  retorted  Miss  Spore  sharply,  "but 
I  suppose  he  could  have  rode  home  with  Denver.  Look  at 
Denver's  left  leg."  This  was  evidently  mere  rhetoric,  as 
Denver's  left  leg  was  probably  inside  his  cottage.  "  That's 
the  way  he  got  it.  Fishin'  all  day,  gettin'  wet  through  and 
trackin'  home  mud  on  to  the  clean  floor.  I  know  old  Mis' 
Trent  couldn't  keep  him  settin'  still  noways.  Jib'll  limp 
worse  than  he  does."  Elizabeth's  very  ears  were  scarlet 
with  indignation.  Jib  never  would  limp,  she  was  entirely 
sure  of  that.  He  might  treat  her  with  positive  cruelty,  he 
might  be  selfish  and  stupid,  and  she  hated  him — but  he 
would  never  limp  like  Uncle  Denver.  She  wished  that  the 


WHITE    BIRCHES  l8l 

sleigh  would  tip  over  and  spill  Miss  Spore  into  a  good  hard 
place ;  and  as  for  herself — why,  it  might  kill  her  for  all  she 
cared — but  she'd  just  like  Miss  Spore  jounced !  In  this  tem 
pest  of  emotion  it  is  not  strange  that  she  did  not  trust  her 
self  to  speak.  The  sleigh  turned  off  the  main  road  and 
made  its  way  along  a  less  broken  lane.  In  a  few  moments 
they  drew  up  at  the  rambling  farm-house,  and  Elizabeth 
sprang  down,  ran  up  to  her  own  little  room,  and  broke  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 

"  There's  a  party  goin'  snow-shoein'  to-morrow  night  over 
to  the  half-way  tavern,"  said  Ashur  Dust  after  the  four- 
o'clock  dinner,  during  which  Elizabeth  had  been  unusually 
quiet.  "  Ever  been,  Elizabeth  ?" 

"  No,  never,"  she  answered ;  "  I  wish  I  could  go." 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  can.  Some  of  'em  are  goin'  around 
in  the  ox-cart,  and  they  can  pick  you  up  if  you  get  tired.  Just 
get  me  my  pipe,  Elizabeth;  I  guess  I'm  gettin'  kinder  rheu 
matic,  or  else  it's  the  chair — kinder  like  to  stay  settin'  after 
Sunday  dinner." 

"  That's  just  the  way  you  get  rheumatism,"  said  Miss 
Spore.  "  If  you'd  git  up  and  stir  around — " 

"  You  just  said  that  was  what  gave  it  to  people — stirring 
round  !"  flashed  Elizabeth,  wheeling  about  on  Miss  Spore. 
The  flame  of  resentment  still  burned  brightly.  There  was 
a  moment's  silence.  Ashur  Dust  winked  with  care  at  his 
genial  wife. 

"  You  did  for  a  fact,  Matilda,"  he  said. 

Miss  Spore  had  never  learned  that  consistency  was  the 
hobgoblin  of  weak  minds,  but  it  held  no  terrors  for  her. 

"  Wai,"  she  remarked  to  Elizabeth,  "  I  guess  you  'ain't 
got  it  in  your  tongue,  anyhow." 

Notwithstanding  the  temperate  correction  of  this  reply, 
she  secretly  entertained  from  this  hour  a  higher  opinion  of 
Elizabeth  French. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

' '  Dearest, 

When  the  mesmerizer  Snow 
With  his  hand's  first  sweep 
Put  the  earth  to  sleep 
'Twas  a  time  when  the  heart  could  show 
All." 

"  I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records." 

BEFORE  the  hour  fixed  for  the  snow-shoeing  party,  the 
swift  flame  which  had  burst  out  in  Elizabeth's  indirect  de 
fence  of  Jib  from  the  aspersions  of  Miss  Spore,  and  which 
seemed  to  scorch  her  own  heart  when  she  was  silent,  had 
sunk  more  than  once  into  the  smouldering  embers  of  re 
sentment,  and  been  fanned  again  into  a  fire  of  passion 
ate  regret.  Now  her  eyes  brightened  with  the  satisfaction 
of  conscious  power  as  she  dwelt  on  the  thought  that  the 
devotion  of  at  least  two  of  the  party  was  sure  to  be  hers, 
and  she  would  show  Jib  Trent — here  her  train  of  thought 
lost  coherency  and  paused  in  vague  triumph,  only  to  be 
rendered  cruelly  definite  by  the  reflection  that,  alas !  Jib 
had  been  "shown"  various  things  of  similar  import,  and 
had  borne  the  spectacle  unscathed.  Then  the  anticipation 
would  terminate  in  a  sweet  but  fleeting  vision  of  herself  and 
Jib,  standing  on  the  Dust  threshold  exchanging  farewells 
after  it  was  all  over,  which  was  banished  by  a  sudden  tide 
which  swept  across  her  consciousness,  the  simple  longing 
for  his  presence,  for  the  grasp  of  his  hand,  for  the  care, 
the  ever-watchful  tenderness  of  which  she  had  been  con- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  183 

scious,  whether  expressed  or  not,  for  a  little  of  that  vanished 
security  in  which  she  had  rested  and  with  which  she  had 
trifled.  Elizabeth  was  a  remarkably  concrete  person ;  she 
had  no  fancy  for  abstractions,  no  taste  for  self-analysis; 
almost  no  thoughtfulness,  but  she  felt  the  less  unmistak 
ably.  Through  all  these  emotional  variations  ran  the  antici 
pation  of  the  coming  expedition.  She  clung  to  that  in 
moods  of  retaliation  and  reconciliation  alike — that  should 
not  pass  as  had  the  other  opportunities,  when  she  had  been 
less  enlightened  concerning  her  own  sentiments. 

The  crust  was  hard  and  gleaming.  The  moon,  a  little 
past  the  full,  shed  a  light,  faint  and  suggestive,  rather  than 
brilliant  and  revealing.  The  muffled  figures  stood  in  a 
small  group  at  the  foot  of  the  lane.  Except  for  a  laugh 
now  and  then,  noticeably  that  of  Elizabeth,  it  was  quieter 
than  seemed  befitting  a  party  of  pleasure.  There  was 
none  of  that  rippling  flow  of  talk,  that  restless  to  and  fro 
of  graceful  movement  and  verbal  interchange  which  com 
monly  attends  such  a  delay  among  people  to  whom  social 
reunions  are  less  detrimental.  By  and  by  the  natural  mer 
riment  of  youth  might  lift  the  curtain  of  gloom  and  dis 
cover  a  scene  of  hilarity,  but  at  present  there  were  few 
beside  Elizabeth  who  were  able  to  meet  the  demands  of 
this  first  ten  minutes  with  apparent  light-heartedness. 

"  Come,"  said  Rhodope,  "  we  are  all  here  at  last,"  and 
swiftly,  silently,  her  tall,  straight  figure  sped  before  them 
over  the  frozen  brilliancy  of  the  shining  fields.  Jib  gave 
one  quick  glance  over  the  group,  saw  Elizabeth  in  strug 
gling  laughter,  with  an  officious  instructor  on  each  side  of 
her,  and,  pushing  his  thick  cap  back  from  his  handsome 
forehead,  he  followed  his  sister,  and  in  straggling  groups 
and  halting  couples  the  whole  company  spread  itself  over 
the  snowy  fields. 

For  a  while  Jib  and  Rhodope  kept  side  by  side  leading 


184  WHITE    BIRCHES 

the  way.  They  did  not  speak.  Each  of  them,  in  different 
ways,  lay  under  the  spell  of  the  time  and  scene.  Night 
and  snow  clothe  even  the  best-known  ways  with  strange 
ness.  Moreover,  in  their  mode  of  progress  itself  there 
was  an  element  of  unreality.  They  followed  no  beaten 
track  of  travel,  they  went  about  for  no  windings  of  brook 
or  fence  or  marsh;  they  kept  their  way,  as  the  crow  flies, 
over  hollows  and  stone  walls,  hidden  by  deep  drifts,  across 
fields  whose  sudden  treacheries  made  them  in  summer-time 
pick  a  careful  way.  -  On  the  smooth,  hard  crust  upon  which 
a  light  snow  had  fallen,  their  snow-shoes  slipped  along, 
transformed,  from  the  long,  awkward  hindrances  they  ap 
peared,  into  light,  floating  supports,  which  kept  them  above 
the  lower  earth,  with  its  difficulties  and  pitfalls.  Their 
course  lay  across  the  valley  and  gradually  downwards. 
Before  them  the  white  plain  stretched  itself  until  it  was 
indefinitely  lost  in  the  mistiness  of  the  pale  moonlight.  It 
seemed  possible  that  it  stretched  on  into  a  land  of  eternal 
ice  and  snow.  There  was  a  dim,  cold  uncertainty  waiting 
for  them  beyond  there,  where  the  gleaming  hill  cut  off  part 
of  what  in  spring  was  a  green  meadow,  and  was  now  only 
a  vague  white  level.  Suggestions  of  the  ice-palaces  and 
the  frozen  courts 'of  the  snow-queen  floated  through  Rhod- 
ope's  mind.  Apparently  far  on  the  horizon,  but  in  reality 
near  at  hand,  twinkled  an  occasional  light,  but  they  seemed 
no  indication  of  human  companionship  and  neighborhood. 
When  now  and  then  the  voices  behind  them  ceased  alto 
gether  as  if  muffled  suddenly  under  the  veil  of  mystery,  it 
was  very,  very  still.  One  strained  one's  ears  unconsciously 
to  catch,  if  might  be,  the  distant  tinkle  of  reindeer's  bells, 
speeding,  speeding  northward  to  the  fortresses  of  continual 
winter. 

Certainly  Medcott  had  told  the  truth  when  he  assured 
Davenant  that  he  had  uttered  no  word  to  disturb  Rhod- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  185 

ope's  peace  of  mind.  No  thought  of  falseness  or  injury 
mingled  with  her  remembrance  of  him.  Her  nature  was 
too  sweet  and  large  to  be  always  bringing  looks  and  words 
and  actions  to  the  bar  of  personal  application.  Her  uncon 
scious  dignity  forbade  the  thought  to  cross  her  mind,  that 
he  had  selfishly  sought  an  idle  pleasure  for  himself  and  let 
the  cost  of  it  fall  upon  her  heart.  In  her  memory  he  stood 
always  courteous,  strong,  and  true.  But  there  were  days 
which  it  seemed  to  her  were  all  remembrance.  There  were 
days  whose  light  seemed  only  that  of  earlier  mornings  and 
afternoons  when  the  whole  world  had  been  warm  and  sun 
lit  ;  days  when  even  this  pale  reflection  seemed  dying  away 
into  colorlessness.  She  did  not  fight  against  it  or  ignore  it. 
Neither  did  she  grow  peevish  and  fretful  under  the  strain 
of  the  sudden  weariness  that  now  and  then  overcame  her, 
but  simply  turned,  as  it  were,  and  faced  this  shadow  which 
had  darkened  her  world.  Regarding  it  with  calm  and  clear, 
if  a  little  saddened,  eyes,  she  found  that  within  it  life  was 
quite  livable,  and  that  though  the  glory  of  noon  had  depart 
ed,  there  was  still  light  enough  to  give  their  true  colors  and 
dimensions  to  the  many  dear  things  that  had  always  been 
hers.  There  was  something  touching  in  one  of  her  beautiful 
youth,  in  this  quiet  acceptance  of  what  had  been  laid  upon 
her  shoulders.  It  was  the  burden  of  which  youth  is  general 
ly  most  impatient  and  which  it  strives  most  wilfully  to  shake 
off — this  of  resignation  to  the  loss  of  the  glow  and  color 
of  life.  Possibly  it  came  in  part  from  the  absence  of  the 
analytical  tendency.  She  never  said,  If  this  had  been  oth 
erwise —  Why  did  I  do  this  ?  Why  did  he  say  this  ? — or 
any  why  ?  or  when  ?  or  where  ?  The  experiences  of  her 
life  came  to  her  naturally  and  inevitably  as  winter  succeed 
ed  summer.  But  more  than  this,  it  arose  from  the  sweetness 
and  nobility  of  her  spirit.  Nevertheless,  there  were  times 
when  an  unusual  depression  seemed  to  make  more  clear 


l86  WHITE    BIRCHES 

what  had  slipped  away.  To-night  the  realization  of  the 
change  was  strong.  As  they  skirted  the  outlying  trees 
of  a  clump  of  bare  aspens,  she  remembered  that  it  was 
within  that  dreary,  dark  wood,  with  its  gaunt  tree-trunks, 
snowy  earth,  and  frozen  streams,  and  which  had  then  dozed 
in  midsummer  greenness  and  plashing  waters,  that  she  had 
first  seen  Medcott,  lying  on  the  ferns.  Over  beyond  there 
had  been  the  landslide — they  could  not  have  gone  so  near 
it  if  there  had  been  no  snow.  It  was  as  if  all  the  dear  by 
ways  and  familiar  scenes  of  her  summer  wanderings  lay 
with  their  memories,  their  warmth  and  their  fragrances, 
covered  up  and  silent  under  this  cold,  crushing,  mysterious 
mantle  of  white,  and  henceforth  her  way  lay  over  them, 
above  them,  across  them — but  never  again  within  them. 
With  a  quick  little  sigh  she  turned  and  put  out  her  hand. 

"  Jib  !"  she  said.  Then  she  paused,  almost  frightened. 
Had  he  failed  her,  too?  He  was  no  longer  by  her  side, 
apparently  she  was  alone  in  this  waste  of  snow.  In  anoth 
er  moment  she  smiled  at  her  own  fear — they  were  all  just 
behind  her,  hidden  for  the  instant  by  a  wall  of  rock ;  now 
they  appeared,  black  figures,  moving  on  in  all  varieties  of 
grace  and  awkwardness.  It  was  but  two  or  three  minutes 
earlier  that  Jib  had  turned  back.  It  had  been  in  obedience 
to  a  sudden  impulse  which,  had  he  paused  to  consider,  he 
would  have  disregarded.  He  had  heard  Elizabeth's  voice 
raised  in  distress.  It  had  not  been  raised  very  loudly,  nor 
was  the  distress  very  poignant,  but  it  came  to  his  ears  with 
entire  distinctness.  It  did  not  mingle  with  the  other  voices 
in  the  least.  It  was  as  if  the  two  were  alone,  and  she  had 
spoken — so  he  turned  back.  They  were  all  laughing  when 
he  met  them. 

"  Elizabeth's  down,"  called  one  girl  to  another,  as  she 
looked  over  her  shoulder.  Jib  paused  and  they  passed 
him.  A  few  feet  farther  were  two  dark  figures  clearly  de- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  187 

fined  like  everything  else  this  pallid  night.  One  was  that 
of  a  good-looking  boy  of  the  neighborhood,  whose  reputa 
tion  had  fallen  of  late  somewhat  below  the  easy  standard 
of  a  country  village. 

He  stood  turned  away  from  Jib,  stooping  over  Elizabeth, 
and  attempting  to  raise  her  to  her  feet.  He  held  both  her 
hands,  and  they  were  both  laughing — Elizabeth  uncontrolla 
bly.  The  treacherous  snow-shoes,  which  had  been  such  val 
uable  allies,  had  been  transformed  into  the  most  malignant 
of  foes.  Elizabeth,  unused  to  their  vagaries,  felt  that  each 
was  the  size  of  the  traditional  barn-door  and  as  impossible 
of  dexterous  management.  Jib  stood  watching  the  little 
episode,  while  the  jealous  anger,  which  had  seemed  no  part 
of  his  quietness  these  last  few  months,  almost  choked  him. 

What  right  had  that  fellow  to  hold  her  hands?  How 
could  she  laugh  like  that  ?  Had  she  no  heart,  no  sense — 
nothing  but  a  spirit  of  coquetry  and  a  talent  for  frivolity? 
Inarticulately  these  questions  surged  through  his  brain.  Poor 
little  Elizabeth  looked  hopelessly  pretty  as  she  crouched  on 
the  snow,  the  demoralized  snow-shoes  turned,  twisted,  and 
defiant.  Her  companion  dropped  her  hands,  and,  leaning 
over,  his  head  close  to  hers,  lifted  her  to  her  feet.  There 
was  a  quick  exclamation  from  Elizabeth,  a  laugh  from  the 
young  man,  and  they  stood  an  instant  silent,  she  clinging 
to  his  arm,  and  looking  up  smiling  into  his  face.  That  he 
had  kissed  her  and  that  he  stood  unrebuked,  Jib  was  as  sure 
as  that  there  was  but  one  thing  for  him  to  do,  to  turn  and 
go  silently  and  swiftly  back  to  the  others,  his  hot  anger 
changing  into  a  sudden  cold,  deceptive  contempt.  But  he 
did  not  go. 

"Oh,  Jib,"  called  out  the  young  man,  whose  education 
had  been  fragmentary  in  certain  directions,  though  some 
what  too  consecutive  in  others,  "come  and  fix  this  here 
snow-shoe.  I  don't  know  what's  happened  to  the  blamed 
thing ! " 


l88  WHITE    BIRCHES 

This  was  an  appeal  not  to  be  resisted  by  the  authority 
on  all  such  difficult  points.  Jib  went  skimming  back 
to  the  spot  where  Elizabeth  stood,  the  laughter  all  gone 
from  the  red  lips,  which  trembled  a  little  as  she  looked 
at  Jib's  eyes,  that  did  not  meet  hers,  and  then  down  at  his 
handsome  head  and  shoulders  as  he  knelt  at  her  feet.  The 
shoe  was  so  loosened  and  twisted  that  it  must  be  unstrapped 
and  put  on  again. 

"  Don't  wait  for  me,  please,"  said  Elizabeth,  with  her 
prettiest  smile,  to  the  young  man  who  waited  rather  use 
lessly  about.  "  I  can  stand  very  well  by  myself  now,  and 
we  will  come  on  after  you  as  soon  as  it  is  fixed." 

Not  for  want  of  a  little  boldness  should  this  opportunity  be 
lost,  though  her  heart  failed  her  as  Jib  added  no  word  of  assent 
as  he  carefully  unwound  the  leather  strap.  But  right  down 
there  on  the  road  beyond  the  next  field  waited  General  Jim 
Downing  with  the  ox-team,  and  she  would  be  driven  the 
rest  of  the  way,  and  be  as  thoroughly  separated  from  Jib 
as  though  the  mountains  divided  them.  With  a  laughing 
"  all  right,"  the  young  fellow  accepted  the  suggestion — per 
haps  he  knew  something  of  how  matters  had  formerly  stood 
between  these  two— and  they  were  alone.  Still  Jib  knelt 
in  silence,  taking  off  the  shoe,  untwisting  the  leather  strap. 
At  last  her  foot  was  free. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  I  thought  I  should 
always  have  to  walk  backwards." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  Elizabeth,  taking  her  courage 
in  both  hands,  placed  her  disengaged  foot — which  looked 
ridiculously  small  by  the  side  of  the  other — firmly  on  the 
ground. 

"  Jib,"  she  began.  He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  her 
for  the  first  time.  Her  foot  went  down  a  little  into  the 
crust,  but  she  jerked  it  out  and  went  on.  "  I  will  have  you 
speak  to  me !"  she  asserted  bravely. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  189 

"What  should  I  say?"  he  asked  indifferently.  There 
was  a  pause. 

"  Put  your  foot  here,"  he  said,  holding  out  the  shoe.  The 
foot,  in  its  moccason,  had  gone  down  a  little  into  the  snow 
again,  and  she  was  obliged  to  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
to  steady  herself  while  she  obeyed  him.  He  was  more  con 
scious  of  that  slight  pressure  than  if  it  had  been  fifty  pounds, 
but  he  gave  no  sign.  Elizabeth  felt  bolder  while  his  eyes 
were  down. 

"  You  used  to  have  things  to  say,"  she  said,  as  he  tight 
ened  the  strap  again. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  Does  that  hurt  you  ?"  He  wait 
ed  for  her  to  answer  before  fastening  it ;  her  hand  was  still 
on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  wouldn't  care  if  it  did  !"  she  burst  out  passionately. 
Jib  started  a  little.  Not  care  whether  he  hurt  her  or  not  ? 
The  idea  of  her  suffering  any  physical  pain  was  like  a  blow. 
But  he  was  cruel  enough  to  be  silent,  except  to  say  after  a 
moment, 

"  You  have  not  said  if  it  does." 

"  No."  Her  eyes  had  filled  suddenly  in  the  most  exas 
perating  fashion  just  as  she  needed  all  her  coolness.  Jib 
rose. 

"  It's  all  right,  I  guess— we  can  go  on,"  he  said,  without 
looking  at  her. 

Side  by  side  they  went  on,  the  others,  by  this  time,  some 
distance  in  advance.  All  the  bitter  reproaches  and  the  spe 
cial  pleas  which  had  been  on  Elizabeth's  lips  ready  for  just 
such  an  occasion — what  had  become  of  them  ?  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  think  of  nothing  except  how  not  to 
cry.  She  was  tired,  poor  child,  the  unaccustomed  exercise 
was  using  her  up.  It  was  all  so  new  and  unfamiliar.  She 
was  tired  of  hearing  how  easily  they  went  over  fences.  She 
didn't  believe  there  were  any  fences  there.  They  kept  tell- 


190  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ing  her  that  she  was  just  over  a  pond  ;  she  was  afraid  to  go 
across  ponds  that  way  without  knowing  it.  There  wasn't 
much  moonlight,  and  things  might  happen — everything  was 
so  queer,  anything  might  happen.  She  didn't  know  where 
she  was  in  this  unfamiliar  world.  Yes,  she  did — oh  !  yes,  she 
did  !  Just  before  them  was  the  last  field  before  the  road 
and  the  ox-cart,  and  this  was  the  last  chance  she  should 
have — it  might  be  the  last  time  she  should  ever,  ever  walk 
with  Jib  Trent.  Her  heart  grew  very  heavy.  How  desper 
ately  quickly  they  went !  Now  they  were  in  the  field.  The 
General  was  already  exchanging  humorous  greetings  with  the 
advance  guard.  Those  long,  strange  white  stretches  were 
really  very  short. 

"  You  used  to  love  me,  Jib."  The  words  fell  from  her 
lips  in  a  breathless,  sudden  little  way  which  touched  on  pa 
thos,  it  was  so  destitute  of  her  usual  coquetry.  Jib  turned 
towards  her  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  started.  All 
the  curbed  anger,  all  the  jealousy  of  the  last  months,  of  the 
last  hour,  all  the  suffering  which  had  been  unuttered  and 
more  bitter,  thrilled  through  his  slow  words. 

"Yes,  Elizabeth,  I  used  to  love  you,"  he  said.  "Do 
you  remember  my  telling  you  once  that  I  should  never  be 
ashamed  of  loving  a  woman  as  Uncle  Denver  loved  your 
mother  ?  Well,  I  never  thought  the  time  would  come,  but, 
after  what  I've  seen  to-night,  I'd  be  ashamed  of  loving  you." 

He  did  not  know  how  cruel  the  words  were.  He  saw  in 
Elizabeth's  pleading  dejection  only  another  phase  of  the 
same  thoughtless  trifling  with  his  deep  feeling  which,  to  do 
him  justice,  had  not  been  infrequent.  He  thought  only  of 
the  kiss  that  he  fancied  she  had  just  given  before  his  very 
eyes  to  another  man.  But  to  her  it  seemed  that  she  had 
had  hard  measure ;  that  for  her  small  iniquities  the  punish 
ment  dealt  to  her  was  of  the  cruelest.  His  casual  reference 
to  her  mother  deepened  the  pain  with  a  thrust  of  home- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  19! 

sickness — her  mother,  who  loved  her  and  was  not  ashamed 
of  her. 

But  never  had  she  loved  Jib  as  she  did  then.  She  would 
have  thrown  herself  at  his  feet  if  that  would  have  done  any 
good.  But  a  single  glance  at  that  set  mouth,  whose  firm 
lines  were  generally  hidden  by  the  sweetness  of  his  smile, 
at  the  stern,  unfriendly  eyes  which  met  hers,  was  enougjj — 
it  would  have  been  worse  than  folly. 

"  Wai,  here  ye  are,"  said  the  General.  "  Chuck  her  in, 
Jib !  I  declare,  I  guess  she's  clean  tuckered  out."  And 
the  slow  oxen  started  up  under  many  instructions  and  much 
encouragement,  and  the  one  cowbell  jangled,  and  slowly  and 
irregularly  Elizabeth's  little  red  head-covering — this  time  it 
was  a  hood— disappeared  again  over  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  If  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with  your  judg 
ment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel  you  to  a  more  equal  en 
terprise." 

"Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here, 
The  thought  of  thee  can  make  all  turmoil  cease." 

THE  occasional  glimpses  of  blue  water  had  vanished. 
The  uninteresting  stretches  of  flat,  sandy  country,  varied 
by  sudden  transits  through  manufacturing  towns,  where 
grimy  faces  were  pressed  against  the  windows  as  the  train 
flashed  past  in  what  seemed  dangerous  proximity,  had  been 
left  behind.  The  delusive  rusticity  of  well-kept  lawns  and 
graded  roads  had  given  place  to  the  rough  and  tumble  of 
squalid  dwellings,  heaps  of  refuse,  and  occasional  tall  brick 
buildings,  the  pioneers  of  the  steady  upward  march  of  what 
the  nineteenth  century  has  decided  to  call  civilization.  The 
early  lights  began  to  appear  in  straight,  if  somewhat  broken, 
rows,  instead  of  sporadic  twinkles.  Rhodope  was  drawing 
near  to  a  great  city.  It  was  all  so  new  to  her,  so  absorbedly 
interesting,  the  country  through  which  she  had  passed; 
those  towns  where  it  seemed  to  her  people  could  not  have 
room  to  breathe,  the  atmosphere  was  so  heavy  with  some 
thing  a  little  less  tangible  than  smoke  ;  and  afterwards  pret 
tier,  open,  freer  places,  where  the  green  of  trees  and  grass 
softened  the  aspect  of  brick  and  granite.  The  people  on 
the  train  were  not  the  mere  travelling  public  to  Rhodope. 
They  were  individuals  with  most  special  lives  and  histories, 
to  whom  a  railway  journey  was  as  a  matter  of  course,  more 


WHITE   BIRCHES.  193 

or  less  important.  There  was  a  girl  of  about  her  own  age 
who  read  persistently,  only  now  and  then  glancing  up  indif 
ferently  when  they  stopped  at  a  station  or  some  one  passed 
down  the  aisle.  How  hard  it  must  be  for  her,  thought  Rhod- 
ope,  to  fix  her  mind  on  her  book  amid  all  this  excitement 
— she  must  be  obliged  to  prepare  a  review  of  it  or  some 
thing,  within  a  given  time.  Across  the  aisle,  some  women, 
with  little  shopping-bags,  talked  incessantly,  and  showed 
each  other  samples  of  dress-goods  and  discussed  shades  of 
trimming;  apparently  to  them  the  great  city  was  only  a 
well-furnished  emporium.  Two  men,  one  of  whom  had  read 
newspapers  while  the  other  made  figures  in  a  memorandum- 
book,  rose  and  took  down  their  Gladstones  from  the  rack, 
and  the  newspaper  reader  put  up  his  silk  travelling-cap,  and 
put  on  a  stiff  hat,  all  with  an  air  of  routine  that  was  im 
pressive.  In  a  moment  they  would  leave  the  train  for  the 
city  street.  So  men  face  danger,  any  stirring  possibility 
whatever,  when  it  is  but  a  matter  of  routine  !  Peril  becomes 
merely  a  factor  in  the  general  whole  for  which  they  prepare 
themselves.  A  handsome  gray-haired  woman  who  had  oc 
cupied  the  seat  with  Rhodope  from  the  last  station  now 
looked  at  her,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  turned  away.  In 
a  moment  she  looked  again,  and  half  smiled,  and  Rhodope 
responded  with  the  charming,  frank  smile  that  was  an  inher 
itance  from  Denver  Trent. 

"  You  have  some  one  to  meet  you,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
gray-haired  woman. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  said  Rhodope,  in  her  sweet  voice ; 
then  she  added,  "  You  are  kind." 

"  Not  at  all,"  disclaimed  the  other.  "  I  thought  I  would 
ask,  it  would  do  no  harm,"  and  she  said  no  more. 

Rhodope  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  vistas  of  the 
long  streets  which  were  now  flitting  by,  thrilled  by  the 
unwontedness,  the  mystery  of  the  spectacle.  The  strange 
13 


194  *   WHITE    BIRCHES 

roar  of  the  city  grew  in  her  ears ;  they  were  slipping  into 
the  station.  A  sense  of  loneliness,  of  insecurity,  over 
whelmed  her  suddenly.  Where  was  she  going?  What 
should  she  do  ?  Whom  should  she  meet  ?  There  were  so 
many  people,  and  she  was  but  one  !  A  glance  at  her  com 
panion  reassured  her.  Amid  this  hurry  and  rush  there  were 
human  sympathy  and  interest — else  why  had  this  woman 
cared  to  ask  about  her  comfort  ? 

It  was  not  strange  that  the  conventional  self-absorption 
had  yielded  to  something  unusual  in  Rhodope's  appearance. 
There  was  that  besides  beauty  that  drew  the  eyes  of  several 
people  to  the  quiet,  dignified,  yet  evidently  untravelled  girl 
who  sat  watching  and  listening  and  interested  as  the  train 
swept  on. 

Florence  Needham's  letter  of  invitation  had  come,  and, 
strangely  enough,  Uncle  Denver  had  taken  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands,  and  said  that  Rhodope  should  go.  If  it  had 
been  left  to  her,  perhaps  the  decision  would  have  been  other 
wise. 

"  Wants  you  to  go  to  see  her,  does  she  ?"  he  had  said. 
"Thinks  it  may  be  of  pleasure  and  perhaps  of  benefit! 
Wai,  I'm  not  cert'in  that  that's  what  she  thinks,  but  neither 
am  I  cert'in  that  it  ain't  so." 

"  I  think  I  will  stay  at  home,"  Rhodope  had  said ;  "  I 
know  what  things  are  so,  here." 

"  I  d'know  as  you  do,"  said  Denver.  "  Things  look  differ 
ent  in  different  places,  but  one  may  be  as  true  as  t'other. 
Guess  you'd  better  go  along." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  come  home  and  tell  you  what 
you  ought  to  think  about  the  mountains,  do  you,  Uncle 
Denver'?"  she  asked  with  a  smile. 

"  I  guess  I  can  stand  it — it  don't  never  trouble  me.  And 
you  ought  to  see  something  outside  the  valley ;  'tain't  all 
of  God's  earth  there  is — I've  been  out  of  it  more'n  once. 


WHITE   BIRCHES  195 

And  when  you  get  tired  flaxin'  round  down  there,  you  can 
come  home." 

Rhodope  hesitated.  If  a  new  life  and  new  scenes  held 
new  pleasures,  they  might,  as  she  had  learned,  hold  also  a 
new  pain.  And  though  she  was  not  wise  enough  to  dis 
trust  Mrs.  Needham,  as  she  should  have  been  distrusted, 
she  was  not  happy  with  her. 

"But  Mrs.  Needham— does  she  really  want  me?" 

"Yes,  she  does,"  declared  Denver,  shrewdly.  "I  ain't 
sayin'  what  she  wants  you  for,  but  she  really  wants  you. 
There  ain't  no  call  to  ask  you  if  she  don't.  And  what  she 
wants  you  for,  she'll  get  it,  don't  you  worry  about  that. 
And  her  husband's  a  good  feller.  He's  about  as  easy  in 
his  mind  as  a  katydid,  but  I  like  him  in  the  main.  I'd 
ruther  you'd  go,  Rhode." 

Just  why  he  was  so  decided  he  might  have  found  it  dif 
ficult  to  explain.  But  with  the  indifference  to  modifying 
circumstances  and  possible  complications,  which  is  distinctly 
a  masculine  characteristic,  he  wished  her  to  accept  the  op 
portunity  that  lay  before  her.  Perhaps  the  Arcadian  sim 
plicity  which  was  united  with  his  native  shrewdness  saw  in 
the  singular  beauty  of  his  niece  the  assurance  of  her  urban 
triumph. 

"  But  she  may  get  tired  of  me — we  don't  get  tired  of  peo 
ple,  you  and  I,  Uncle  Denver,"  and  she  leaned  over  his 
shoulder,  the  letter  in  her  hand,  "  but  in  the  city  there  are 
so  many  more  people,  it  is  natural  they  should  get  tired  of 
each  other  and — of  me." 

"  Wai,  if  she  does,  she'll  leave  the  railroad  tracks  down,  I 
guess,  and  you  can  come  back  as  quick  as  you  went." 

His  persistence  weakened  her  own  misgivings,  and  sud 
denly  a  flame  of  longing  leaped  into  her  heart.  It  was  his 
world  that  he  had  talked  about  that  evening  at  the  stile. 
Why  should  she  not  see  it  with  her  eyes?  Perhaps  she 


196  WHITE   BIRCHES 

was  unwise  in  her  shrinking  from  Mrs.  Needham.  It  was 
not  hard  for  her  to  re-establish  a  shaken  belief  in  people's 
disinterestedness.  The  natural,  youthful,  warm  eagerness 
for  both  the  certainties  and  the  uncertainties  of  such  an  ex 
perience  swept  aside  her  hesitations.  She  would  go,  and — 
as  Uncle  Denver  said — she  could  come  back. 

Encouragement  and  discouragement  had  attended  her 
going  forth.  General  Jim  Downing  had  shaken  his  head 
mournfully,  and  stated  with  gloomy  reiteration  that  New 
York  was  an  awful  place.  "  It's  an  awful  place.  I  went 
there  once,"  he  said. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  it,  General  ?"  inquired  Abijah 
Stetson. 

"  There's  such  an  awful  lot  of  folks,"  he  replied. 

"  And  they  didn't  give  you  a  company  nor  anythin'  ?" 
Mr.  Stetson  spoke  with  humorous  extravagance,  and  the 
General  did  not  answer  directly. 

"  I  didn't  know  where  I  was,"  he  went  on.  "You  don't 
know  where  you  be,  Rhode.  I  didn't  hardly  know  what  had 
happened.  It's  an  awful  place." 

On  the  whole,  his  prognostications  sounded  very  much — 
barring  the  hint  of  personal  experience — like  the  somewhat 
vague  speculations  of  orthodox  theology  concerning  a  fut 
ure  state.  But  Tim's  comments  were  all  of  an  opposite 
nature. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Rhode,"  he  admonished,  "  what  any 
body  does,  or  about  crossing  the  streets.  The  p'lice  '11  get 
you  across." 

"  The  police !"  exclaimed  Rhodope  in  alarm. 

"  And  the  horse-cars,  they'll  take  you  anywheres  you 
want  to  go — you  just  tell  the  conductor  where  you're  bound 
for." 

This  gave  Rhodope  an  undefined  impression  that  a 
horse-car  was  something  to  be  obligingly  tossed  about  by 


WHITE    BIRCHES  197 

every  wind  of  personal  convenience  at  a  suggestion  to  the 
conductor.  "  And  then  there's  the  tunnel — but  they  light 
the  lamps,  and  you'll  get  through  all  right."  It  must  be 
confessed  that  Tim's  experiences  were  limited  to  one  out 
look  five  minutes  long  from  the  Forty-second  Street  station, 
and  his  reassurances  were  somewhat  tinctured  by  the  pecul 
iar  features  of  that  locality.  Nevertheless,  his  assistance 
was  practical,  for  he  took  charge  of  Rhodope  to  the  junc 
tion  where  she  made  her  final  change  of  cars,  which  was  as 
far  as  his  assorted  duties  took  him.  The  first  strangeness 
wore  off  within  the  shelter  of  his  presence ;  and  when  he 
came  and  sat  with  her  for  a  few  moments,  in  the  glory  of 
his  gilded  uniform,  it  lent  her  more  than  a  transient  distinc 
tion  in  the  eyes  of  her  companions,  most  of  them  of  the 
simpler  country  sort. 

"  New  York  isn't  any  great  shakes,"  declared  Miss  Ma 
tilda  Spore.  "  No,  haven't  ever  been  there,  but  I  know  all 
about  it.  Seen  New-Yorkers  enough  up  here,  and  precious 
glad  they  be  too,  to  get  away  from  their  own  city.  There 
ain't  nothin'  particular  about  'em  either,  except  the  way 
they  walk  and  their  thinkin'  the  whole  American  continent's 
built  on  Manhattan  Island." 

But  protection,  apprehension,  and  sarcasm  alike,  Rhod 
ope  has  left  far  behind.  She  stands  committed  to  the  new 
thing,  as  she  comes  along  into  the  mysterious,  thrilling, 
magical  precincts  which  have  hitherto  seemed  to  her  more 
distant  than  to  the  modern  traveller  the  wilds  of  Abyssinia 
— the  heart  of  a  great  city.  Riding  backwards,  and  there 
fore  facing  Rhodope,  upon  one  of  the  seats  just  beyond  her 
on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle,  had  been  established  for  an 
hour  a  small,  small  child.  She  held  on  gravely  to  the  arm 
of  the  seat  with  one  diminutive  hand,  the  other  lay  in  her 
lap,  which  was  bounded  with  almost  disconcerting  sudden 
ness  and  finality  by  a  small  pair  of  buttoned  shoes,  forced  by 


198  WHITE    BIRCHES 

the  width  of  the  seat  into  a  strictly  horizontal  position. 
She  looked  straight  before  her,  seeming  to  feel  no  need  of 
amusement.  Her  mother  sat  opposite  her,  with  a  man  who 
had  just  come  into  the  car,  and,  taking  his  seat  beside  her, 
greeted  her  like  an  old  friend.  They  were  evidently  people 
from  one  of  the  ordinary  little  towns  on  the  way.  The  man 
finally  became  somewhat  ill  at  ease  under  the  aged  steadi 
ness  of  the  child's  small  gaze,  and  proffered  a  few  awkward, 
if  well-meant,  attempts  at  entertainment.  He  chucked  her 
under  the  chin  with  sudden  impulsiveness,  and  it  seemed 
almost  disrespectful.  She  smiled  absently,  but  did  not  re 
spond.  The  older  ones  laughed  and  talked  with  a  good 
deal  of  rural  and  innocent  intimacy,  and  the  child  observed 
them  incidentally,  while  she  thought  of  other  things. 
There  was  something  irresistibly  droll  in  the  baby's  calm 
ness  as  contrasted  with  the  triviality  of  her  elders'  light- 
heartedness.  She  never  looked  out  of  the  window ;  she  was 
neither  irritated  nor  amused.  At  last  the  man,  driven  to 
desperation  by  this  Lilliputian  majesty,  presented  her  with  a 
mundane  cooky  from  a  paper  bag,  while  the  mother  looked 
on  smiling.  The  child  received  it  willingly,  but  without  en 
thusiasm,  and  ate  it  slowly,  still  grasping  the  chair-arm 
with  one  hand  and  being  very  careful  not  to  scatter  crumbs. 
When  she  had  eaten  it  she  returned  to  her  former  Buddhistic 
calm,  and  sat  perfectly  erect,  her  small  toes  straight  out  in 
front  of  her  and  her  hand  in  her  lap.  After  this,  the  man 
desisted  from  further  attempts  to  disturb  her  dignified  re 
pose,  and  only  looked  at  her  now  and  then  askance,  in  the 
pauses  of  the  conversation,  as  at  a  mysterious  divinity,  not 
awful,  but  impressive.  Rhodope  had  watched  her  with  fasci 
nated  eyes.  What  sort  of  a  generation  was  this  of  which  the 
infants  of  three  gazed  forth  upon  the  incidents  of  a  rail 
way  journey  as  unemotionally  as  the  very  old  look  upon 
life! 


WHITE    BIRCHES  199 

When  Florence  Needham  had  decided  to  act  upon  Dave- 
nant's  suggestion  to  have  Rhodope  visit  her,  it  had  been 
with  the  intention  of  carrying  it  into  immediate  effect ;  but 
as  is  usual  with  intentions  whose  date  of  fulfilment  rests  en 
tirely  with  ourselves,  month  after  month  slipped  by  before 
the  letter  of  invitation  was  written.  She  had  not  announced 
the  expected  arrival  of  Rhodope  to  those  who  were  the 
most  interested  in  it,  although  before  its  time  was  fixed  she 
had  let  Davenant  perceive,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
that  she  had  not  forgotten  the  delightful  if  vague  results  to 
be  expected  from  her  presence,  at  which  he  had  so  skilful 
ly  hinted.  Davenant  had  amused  himself  with  observation 
of  Florence  Needham  this  winter,  more  than  was  perfectly 
consistent  with  his  convictions.  He  found  it  often  con 
venient  to  go  to  her  of  an  afternoon  for  a  cup  of  tea,  or  to 
listen  to  her  reflections  on  her  neighbors  at  an  evening  re 
ception.  How  much  this  weakness  was  due  to  the  half- 
conscious  hope  of  seeing  Rhodope,  how  much  to  an  ease 
and  familiarity  which  was  unavoidable  after  their  early 
relations,  and  how  much  to  the  vanity  of  his  analyti 
cal  inclination,  flattered  by  the  readiness  with  which  she 
responded  to  his  touch  upon  her  mental  tendencies,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  say.  Certainly  he  did  not  lose  his 
keen-sightedness  where  she  was  concerned.  It  amused  him 
infinitely  to  catch  the  motive  of  her  most  careless  reflec 
tions.  With  reprehensible  enjoyment  he  introduced  now 
and  then  a  flavor  of  the  bitterness  of  doubt  into  some  cup 
of  social  nectar.  It  was  not  quite  an  ill-natured  pleasure, 
because  there  was  no  draught,  however  skilfully  prepared, 
that  Florence  could  accept  without  a  glance  at  that  of  her 
neighbor  to  see  if  hers  had  other  superior  ingredients; 
but  it  was  certainly  not  done  in  a  spirit  of  missionary  en 
terprise.  To  Davenant  the  literary  faculty  brought  its 
usual  danger,  that  of  the  loss  of  all  wish  to  change  or  up- 


200  WHITE    BIRCHES 

lift,  in  the  amusement  derived  from  the  observation  of 
human  faults  and  foibles  as  well  as  human  virtues.  More 
over,  as  he  asked  himself  once  or  twice,  who  was  he  that 
he  should  resist  the  always  effusive  welcome  of  a  pret 
ty  woman  ? — the  less  dangerous,  he  might  have  added,  in 
that  with  unsparing  rigor  he  assigned  its  effusiveness  en 
tirely  to  what  she  thought  he  possessed,  not  in  the  least  to 
what  he  was. 

In  the  frequency  with  which  he  drifted  to  her  side, 
Florence  naturally  continued  to  see  a  return  to  his  old  de 
votion.  She  had  never  really  lost  him  then !  A  faint  mel 
ancholy  now  and  again  touched  her  words  to  him  as  she 
thought  of  his  successful  grappling  with  the  world's  prob 
lems.  She  conveyed  a  half-regretful,  half-tender  emotion 
in  her  glance  as  he  came  to  her  after  an  interview  in  which 
he  had  basked  in  the  smiles  of  a  recognized  social  leader. 
But  even  Davenant  did  not  know  just  when  Rhodope  was 
coming,  for  he  had  been  out  of  town  for  a  fortnight.  Per 
haps  this  very  absence  spurred  Mrs.  Needham's  indolence 
with  its  suggestion  that  some  time  he  might  stop  coming 
entirely.  It  was  then  that  she  wrote  to  Rhodope,  and  it 
was  then  that  Rhodope  came  into  this  atmosphere,  all  un 
conscious  of  the  currents  and  counter-currents  that  sur 
rounded  her;  looking  forward  into  this  strange,  new  life 
with  some  bewilderment,  and  shrinking  before  so  many, 
many  people,  but  with  no  fear  that  the  time  would  come 
when  the  confusion  should  grow  to  be  that  of  strange 
tongues. 

She  was  grateful  to  Needham  for  the  evident  sincerity  of 
his  welcome.  Where  everything  was  so  unknown,  the  man 
whom  she  had  seen  half  a  dozen  times,  and  who  had  known 
her  in  her  own  home,  having  talked  and  smoked  with  Uncle 
Denver,  and  fished  with  Jib,  was  like  an  old  friend ;  and 
from  the  moment  of  that  first  meeting  in  the  station  there 


WHITE    BIRCHES  2OI 

existed  between  the  two  an  odd  sort  of  friendliness  un 
disturbed  by  Rhodope's  seriousness  or  Needham's  volatility. 
Florence  had  been  surprised  by  the  interest  her  husband 
had  shown  in  Rhodope's  arrival.  He  had  extolled  the  sug 
gestion  from  the  very  first.  He  was  usually  indifferent  con 
cerning  her  guests  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  marked 
aversions,  but  evidently  the  idea  of  Rhodope's  presence 
was  an  unusually  pleasant  one.  Of  late  he  had  even  been 
urgent  that  the  visit  should  take  place,  and  had  abandoned 
an  important  engagement  to  meet  her.  He  had  been 
rather  irritable  at  home  for  the  last  month.  His  accusa 
tions  of  insincerity  and  humbug  were  flung  more  violently 
and  frequently  against  those  whose  opinions  were  not  his 
own.  Occasionally  he  would  insist  upon  her  acceptance  of 
an  invitation  to  which  Florence  herself  was  indifferent, 
would  accompany  her  to  the  entertainment  and  return, 
railing  against  its  every  detail.  Another  time  he  would  be 
filled  with  a  fine  scorn  of  all  social  functions  whatever,  and 
find  fault  with  his  wife's  taste  for  them.  Altogether,  he  had 
been  difficult,  and  Florence  would  have  found  in  this  fact 
a  greater  significance  if  she  had  not  had  more  important 
things  to  think  of. 

Austin  Medcott  stood  at  the  ticket-office  on  his  way  by 
train  to  keep  an  evening  engagement.  As  he  waited  im 
patiently  his  turn  in  the  eager  crowd,  he  looked  across  the 
confusion  of  the  railway  station  and  caught  a  sudden  glimpse 
of  a  woman's  face.  He  stood  motionless  in  amazement. 
Here,  in  this  turmoil,  jostled  by  the  pushing,  hurrying  men 
and  women,  her  beautiful  eyes  wide  open  in  wondering  ob 
servation,  a  little  frightened  by  the  unwonted  press  and 
struggle,  here  in  the  New  York  station,  was  Rhodope  Trent ! 
He  made  a  quick  step  forward,  then,  turning  to  go  back,  he 
was  hemmed  in  by  the  railing  and  the  line  of  ticket-buyers 


202  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Where  was  she  going  ?    What  was  she  doing  here  ?    Could 
he  never  get  to  her  ? 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  a  voice,  impatiently.  Somebody's  elbow 
was  precipitating  matters  from  behind.  Mechanically  he 
bought  his  ticket  and  pushed  on.  But  it  was  the  most 
crowded  hour  of  the  day.  He  fell  over  bundles  and  across 
umbrellas.  When  he  reached  the  door  he  was  just  in  time 
to  see  her  put  into  a  carriage  by  Charlie  Needham  and 
driven  away.  But  this  reassured  him — he  could  find  out, 
then,  where  she  was.  He  regretted  that  he  was  leaving  the 
city  for  even  a  few  hours.  Now  that  it  held  Rhodope,  it 
was  strangely  attractive.  He  must  see  her  soon — how  had 
he  lived  without  seeing  her  so  long !  Her  beautiful  face 
rose  before  him  again,  and  instead  of  a  cool,  dark  back 
ground,  with  slender,  tall,  white  birches  gleaming  here  and 
there  through  its  dimness,  he  saw  it  against  the  dusty,  grimy, 
sordid  atmosphere  of  a  railway  station.  It  was  a  revolu 
tion. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

c<  The  appurtenance  of  welcome  is  fashion  and  ceremony." 
"Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  times." 

FLORENCE  had  long  ago  laid  aside  the  subject  of  the  pro 
fundity  of  her  husband's  attachment  to  herself  as  one  upon 
which  speculation  was  unnecessary,  else  she  might  have 
been  piqued  by  his  evident  admiration  of  Rhodope.  That 
the  day  would  ever  come  when  the  fancy  which  she  without 
effort  had  taken  possession  of,  and  which  she  had  taken  no 
step  to  develop  into  something  deeper,  might  wander  away 
and  refuse  to  be  recalled,  she  never  dreamed. 

Meanwhile,  in  Rhodope's  presence,  Needham  was  more 
like  his  old  self  than  he  had  been  for  many  days  •  restless 
to  be  sure,  sometimes  petulant,  but  not  uncompanionable, 
and  evidently  willing  to  please.  He  showed  her  little  atten 
tions  to  which  she  was  unused,  brought  her  flowers  and 
candy,  and  saw  that,  when  it  was  possible,  she  was  with  the 
people  whom  she  liked.  This  friendliness  stood  her  in  good 
stead  in  this  new  sphere  where  her  presence  was  to  lend 
glory  to  Florence  Needham's  position,  for  he  manifested 
more  tact  and  sympathy  than  entered  into  the  arrangements 
from  his  wife's  point  of  view.  Mrs.  Needham  was  not  guilty 
of  overt  rudeness,  but  she  never  forgot  that  Rhodope  had 
been  brought  there  for  a  purpose,  and  in  the  tenacity  with 
which  she  clung  to  this  it  was  most  natural  that  she  should 
disregard  the  claims  of  the  girl  herself. 

The  first  days  of  her  visit  passed,  days  of  observation  for 
both  Rhodope  and  Florence,  though  after  a  different  man- 


204  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ner.  To  Rhodope  everything  was  new,  and  the  adjustment 
of  internal  to  external  relations  was  a  perplexing  thing.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  none  of  the  old  cables  held  good,  and 
that  if  she  could  be  content  to  drift,  things  might  be  easier ; 
but  she  could  not  drift,  she  must  learn  and  know,  and  with 
a  conscientiousness,  sometimes  ludicrously  disproportion 
ate,  she  questioned  every  current  and  every  breeze.  Flor 
ence  could  not  see  that  any  immediate  and  startling  result 
followed  the  discriminating  informality  with  which  she  pre 
sented  Miss  Trent  to  a  limited  circle.  But  neither  was  she 
convinced  of  the  futility  of  the  arrangement.  There  was, 
in  the  uncertainty  concerning  the  direct  object,  a  certain  at 
tainment  of  indirect  ones  distinctly  gratifying,  although 
there  were  even  now  many  loopholes  of  doubt  through 
which  subsequent  disappointments  and  chagrin  were  to 
make  their  way.  Rhodope  had  produced  no  social  sensa 
tion,  but  her  beauty  was  indisputable,  and  a  few  people 
found  out  that  she  was  charming,  when  the  shyness,  which 
was  not  self-consciousness,  vanished,  and  she  talked  or  lis 
tened,  gravely,  with  a  puzzled  little  air  of  half-comprehen 
sion,  arising  from  her  mental  comparison  of  the  ideas 
gleaned  from  books  and  her  own  thoughts  with  those  she 
found  in  the  new  environment.  Those  who  made  this  dis 
covery  spoke  of  her  to  Florence  with  that  inflection  of  flat 
tery  that  implies  that  only  delicate  perceptions  would  have 
brought  such  qualities  to  light,  which  was  satisfactory.  As 
for  Medcott's  artistic  and  Davenant's  critical  appreciation, 
they  had  been  unmistakable  from  the  first  moment. 
Neither  suffered  diminution  now  that  Rhodope  was  in  an 
other  place.  In  the  frequent  meetings  that  took  place  on 
various  pretences,  Florence  found  the  assurance  that,  in 
part,  at  least,  her  tactics  were  successful.  Medcott  dis 
dained  to  disguise  the  interest  that  he  found  in  Rhodope 
under  any  veil  of  general  attention,  but  real  feeling  ren- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  205 

dered  Florence  less  clear-sighted  than  usual,  and  she  saw  in 
the  ordinary  civility  he  showed  her  evidences  that  this  feel 
ing  was  shared,  and  found  in  his  companionship  the  satis 
faction  she  had  formerly  sought  in  vain.  It  was  Rhodope 
that  brought  him,  she  told  herself,  but  it  was  she  that  made 
him  stay. 

It  was  at  an  evening  reception  that  Davenant  first  began 
to  doubt  a  little  the  success,  possibly  the  wisdom,  of  what 
his  conscience  made  bold  to  tell  him  was  his  experiment. 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  he  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of 
Rhodope  seated  on  a  sofa,  not  far  from  Mrs.  Needham,  who 
had  temporarily  abandoned  her.  Just  before  her  sat  a 
young  and  pretty  woman,  the  waist  of  whose  gown  sug 
gested  no  extraordinary  outlay,  and  by  her  side  a  young 
and  beautiful  man  whose  ideas  were  disproportionate  in 
moral  grandeur  to  that  of  his  shirt-front.  Davenant  had 
a  sensation  of  artistic  pleasure  in  the  incongruity,  touched 
with  sympathetic  regret.  Rhodope  regarded  the  youth  with 
a  smile  of  compassionate  interest  as  he  expressed  himself 
at  intervals  concerning  the  latest  verities  of  New  York  life. 
She  had  seen  shy  boys  before,  and  she  knew  they  needed 
sympathy.  Moreover,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  him  in  part  to 
spare  the  embarrassment  of  the  woman  whos.e  shoulders 
were  so  near.  The  young  man,  who  was  of  course  not 
shy,  but  only  weary  of  life  as  Mariana,  continued  his  Del 
phic  utterances  with  the  consciousness  that  for  once  in 
her  life  this  good-looking  country-girl  was  learning  what 
society  of  the  best  kind  was.  Davenant  nearly  laughed 
aloud. 

"  Mrs.  Needham  is  looking  very  fit  this  evening,"  he  over 
heard  the  oracle  say,  as  he  drew  near.  Rhodope  looked 
slightly  alarmed  as  she  glanced  across  at  Florence,  wonder 
ing  vaguely  if  the  adjective  applied  to  her  yellow  brocade 
or  to  possible  apoplectic  danger.  While  she  wondered  she 


206  WHITE    BIRCHES 

perceived  that  Davenant  stood  by  the  sofa,  and  she  smiled 
in  unconscious  relief.  They  had  already  met.  He  had 
called  with  Medcott  a  day  or  two  after  her  arrival,  found 
her  at  home  with  Mrs.  Needham,  and  the  four  lingered 
about  the  tea-table  in  more  or  less  satisfied  frames  of  mind. 
Rhodope  had  said  little,  but  Medcott  had  watched  her  with 
deep  satisfaction  in  her  naturalness  and  beauty,  while  Tom 
and  Florence  had  done  most  of  the  talking.  Davenant  had 
watched  Rhodope  too,  and  inclined  to  the  opinion  that  it 
had  been  a  good  thing  to  get  her  here.  But  to-night  he  be 
gan  to  have  misgivings. 

"  I  am  invited  to  come  and  see  you  again  to-morrow  after 
noon,"  he  said,  while  the  young  man  took  the  elevation  of 
his  intellectual  standpoint,  with  that  of  his  collar,  else 
where.  "We  are  going  to  have  a  party,  and  my  advice  is 
to  be  considered  in  the  matter  of  certain  invitations." 

"  Will  it  be  like  this  ?"  asked  Rhodope. 

"  It  will  be  something  like  this,  only  worse,  because  you 
will  have  to  stand  up  and  be  presented." 

Rhodope  considered  this  fact  with  becoming  gravity. 

"  Are  you  coming  ?"  she  asked.  "  And  is  Mr.  Medcott 
coming?" 

"  We  wouldn't  either  of  us  miss  it  for  worlds,"  he  replied 
confidentially,  "but  we  shall  come  late  and  look  awfully 
bored  when  we  do  come,  and  as  if  we'd  rather  be  anywhere 
else.  I  tell  you  this  so  that  you  won't  be  misled  by  what 
are  just  our  city  manners." 

"I  am  learning  all  the  time,  Mr.  Davenant,"  she  an 
swered,  with  a  commendable  pride  in  her  progress.  "  I 
have  been  listening  to  the  talk  of  that  young  lady  who  plays 
the  piano  so  beautifully,  and  I  have  found  out  that  when 
you  do  anything  very  well,  that  that  isn't  the  thing  you 
must  talk  about  doing  well,  or  " — she  hesitated,  for  it  was 
difficult  for  her  to  express  contradictions. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  207 

"  It's  always  safer  to  talk  as  if  you  did  everything  well, 
only  you  didn't  have  to  do  anything,"  he  suggested  vaguely. 

"  No,  that  isn't  it — but  you  must  talk  as  if  something  else 
was  what  you  really  did  well — something  that  nobody  knows 
you  do  at  all."  She  looked  at  him  triumphantly. 

"You  have  mastered  one  of  the  great  secrets  of  social 
life,"  he  assured  her.  "  What  does  the  piano-playing  lady 
pride  herself  innocently  upon  ?" 

"A  way  she  has  of  shuffling  cards  and  dealing.  She  says 
that  you  ought  to  see  her  do  it." 

"And  you — you  are  a  number  of  things,  patently  and  evi 
dently,"  he  said,  "  but  what  are  you  going  to  pride  yourself 
on?" 

"  Pop-corn  balls,"  she  nodded,  "  I  can  make  them." 

A  large,  be-diamonded  woman  in  velvet  passed  through 
the  room,  and  all  eyes  followed  her. 

"That,"  said  Davenant,  in  a  tone  of  hushed  respect,  "is 
Mrs.  Andrew  F.  Rimmon." 

"  I  never  heard  of  her,"  said  Rhodope  simply.  Davenant 
looked  about  him  apprehensively. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Trent,  how  fortunate  that  you  said 
that  to  me  and  to  no  one  else  !  If  there's  any  one  you  must 
acknowledge  not  having  heard  of  let  it  be — er — Adam,  or 
some  one  of  that  class  ;  never,  never — Mrs.  Andrew  F.  Rim 
mon  !" 

"  What  has  she  done  ?"  asked  Rhodope,  looking  after  the 
somewhat  heavy  vision  of  gorgeousness. 

"  Nothing — never  anything  at  all — that's  her  claim  to 
consideration — though  of  course  there  are  always  ill-nat 
ured  people  to  assert  the  contrary.  She  doesn't  even  spend 
her  husband's  millions — gets  some  one  else  to  do  it  for  her. 
And  here  comes  the  literary  woman  of  the  evening.  The 
fashion  of  her  gown  is  chastened,  you  observe — when  you 
see  chastened  fashion,  it  means  a  vocation  of  some  sort — 
usually  literary." 


208  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Does  she  write  books  ?"  asked  Rhodope  with  some  awe. 

"  Oh,  no,  she  doesn't  write — but  she  knows  people  that 
do,  you  know,  and  she — in  short,  she  is  extremely  literary. 
That  is  a  poet  with  her  now ;  he  writes  Fragments  princi 
pally  ;  you  could  easily  pick  up  twelve  basketf uls — at  the 
book-stores." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Davenant  is  saying,"  said  a  voice 
just  behind  them,  "  but  I  know  from  the  fatuous  amiability 
of  his  expression  that  he  is  abusing  his  neighbors." 

Rhodope  looked  up  quickly  at  Medcott ;  Davenant 
watched  her  so  closely  that  if  she  had  not  been  un 
conscious  of  it  she  would  have  found  his  scrutiny  merci 
less. 

"  The  magnanimity  of  my  designs  is  beyond  your  limited 
comprehension,  Medcott,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  am  seeking 
to  guide  Miss  Trent's  wayward  footsteps  away  from  the  pit 
falls  that  surround  her.  That  my  reward  will  come  later 
I  have  faith  to  hope." 

"  Everything  there  but  charity,"  and  Mrs.  Needham's  fre 
quent,  rather  loud  laugh  rippled  close  beside  him.  "  You 
never  have  any  of  that  to  spare." 

"  No,  but  I  always  know  where  to  go  to  find  some,"  he 
said  with  grateful  appreciation.  Before  she  had  entirely 
made  up  her  mind  what  her  object  had  been  in  approach 
ing  the  group,  she  was  pacing  the  conservatory  with  Dave 
nant,  leaving  Rhodope  and  Medcott  alone. 

Davenant  was  still  doubtful,  and  the  more  observant, 
the  next  day,  as  they  sat  in  the  Needhams'  library  and  dis 
cussed  Florence's  forthcoming  entertainment.  This  room 
was  called  the  library  because  it  held  a  low  bookcase  at 
one  end,  decorated  with  a  row  of  china  bowls  and  contain 
ing  a  set  of  Thackeray,  an  encyclopaedia,  several  recently 
published  novels,  and  Moore's  poems ;  also  a  centre-table 
upon  which  stood  a  silver  inkstand,  two  or  three  pen-handles, 


WHITE    BIRCHES  209 

a  Japanese  paper-knife,  and  an  immaculate  blotter.  A  fire 
burning  in  the  low  grate  enhanced  the  literary  atmos 
phere. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  have  the  Eagers,  are  you  ?"  inquired 
Davenant  from  where  he  sat  in  front  of  the  fire.  Rhodope 
was  across  the  room  in  a  straight-backed  wooden  chair  very 
much  like  one  in  Denver  Trent's  living-room.  Medcott 
lounged  in  the  deep  window-seat,  while  Florence  played 
with  the  paper-knife.  She  laid  it  down  as  Davenant  asked 
his  question. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  I'd  have  to ;  they  go  every 
where.  Perhaps  they  won't  all  come." 

"  Yes,  they  will,"  responded  Davenant,  "  and  they  do 
litter  up  a  room  dreadfully — there  are  so  many  of  'em." 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  helped  it " — Florence  was 
vaguely  troubled  by  his  partial  disapproval.  Perhaps  every 
body  didn't  have  the  Eagers,  after  all. 

"  I  guess  you  couldn't,"  Tom  reassured  her. 

"What  shall  you  wear,  Miss  Rhodope?"  asked  Medcott. 

Rhodope  started  and  blushed  a  little.  She  was  begin 
ning  to  realize  that  the  question  had  not  hitherto  held  its 
proper  place  in  her  life. 

"I  haven't  anything  but  a  white  dress,"  she  said — "the 
same  one." 

"  That's  right,"  commented  Medcott,  with  the  freedom 
of  a  man  whose  business  it  is  to  study  the  picturesque. 

Florence  looked  up  sharply.  Why  hadn't  he  asked  her 
what  she  was  going  to  wear  ?  She  did  not  like  the  way  his 
eyes  dwelt  on  Rhodope. 

"  Did  you  suppose  I  should  allow  the  ingenue  to  wear 
anything  but  white  ?"  she  laughed. 

"  One  is  never  disappointed  in  you,  Mrs.  Needham,"  he 
answered. 

"  I  saw  Eric  down-town,"  remarked  Davenant.  "  He 
14 


210  WHITE    BIRCHES 

spoke  of  coming.  I  am  glad  you  asked  him.  I  think  that, 
like  the  Merchant  of  Novgorod,  when  he  isn't  asked  to  any 
thing,  he  goes  and  sits  on  a  blue  stone  and  plays  the  harp." 

"  The  Merchant  of  Novgorod  ?"  repeated  Rhodope,  with 
greater  interest  than  she  had  shown  in  the  Eagers.  "  Who 
•was  he,  Mr.  Davenant  ?" 

"  Blessed  if  I  know,"  answered  Davenant  frankly,  "but  he 
has  figured  in  story,  and  that's  what  he  did,  anyhow,  when 
he  didn't  get  his  invitation — and  a  very  sensible  thing,  too." 

"  Clara  Eric  brings  that  man  she  is  engaged  to." 

"  Is  that  girl  engaged  ?  Where's  the  man  from,  that's 
going  to  marry  a  girl  with  such  a  voice  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  West,  or  Rhode  Island — or  somewhere,"  re 
plied  Florence,  passing  under  a  succession  of  impressions. 

"  She  sings,  too,"  went  on  Davenant,  "  as  well  as  talks. 
I'd  rather  marry  a  calliope." 

"  Aren't  any  of  your  friends  coming  ?"  asked  Rhodope 
seriously.  She  spoke  not  with  suggestion  of  reproof,  but 
in  some  mental  perplexity. 

"  Why,  of  course — "  began  Florence,  and  then  stopped. 

Medcott  threw  his  head  back  on  the  pile  of  cushions 
and  laughed. 

"  I'm  beginning  to  be  afraid  you  won't  do,"  said  Tom 
sadly.  The  door  opened  and  Needham  entered.  "  What 
you  laughing  at,  Medcott  ?"  he  asked,  in  his  quick,  nervous 
way;  and,  not  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  went  on,  "Thought 
you'd  have  some  tea,  Florence  ;  I'm  tired — don't  often  want 
tea,  but  I've  a  headache.  You're  always  saying  it's  good 
for  a  headache.  What  are  you  all  talking  about  ?  They're 
not  chaffing  you,  Miss  Rhodope,  are  they?"  and  he  sat 
down  by  her. 

"  She's  chaffing  us,"  said  Davenant.  Needham  looked 
at  him  as  he  spoke,  and  then  glanced  immediately  away. 

"  She  thinks  our  friendship  is  fraudulent,"  Tom  added. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  211 

"  Fraudulent  ?"  repeated  Needham  quickly.  "  Why  is 
that  ?  Why  do  you  say  that,  Miss  Rhodope  ?  You  believe 
in  mine,  don't  you  ?"  There  was  a  note  of  earnestness  in 
his  voice  that  no  one  but  Davenant  noticed.  A  servant 
was  bringing  in  tea,  and  Medcott  had  risen  to  offer  some 
assistance  to  Mrs.  Needham. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  it,  certainly,"  said  Rhodope,  smiling. 
"  And  I  have  not  been  saying  anything  against  their  friend 
ship.  That  is  one  of  your  fashions  here,"  she  went  on,  half 
to  him,  half  to  herself,  "  to  accuse  people  of  things  you 
know  they  have  not  done." 

"  That  is  true,"  exclaimed  Needham  with  sudden  vio 
lence  ;  "  they  are  always  making  accusations.  I  must 
go  and  dress,"  he  said,  starting  up.  "  Don't  let  me  disturb 
you,  but  I  have  an  early  dinner  at  the  club  to-night." 

"  Here's  the  cup  of  tea  that  you  wanted.  I  wish  you'd 
wait  and  take  it,"  said  Florence  with  a  touch  of  not  unnat 
ural  exasperation.  The  servant  was  going  about  lighting 
the  lamps.  The  cold  afternoon  light  was  fading  swiftly, 
and  the  fire-light  twinkled  distantly  on  the  gilding  of 
Moore's  poems  with  their  own  delusive  warmth.  Need- 
ham  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  taking  the  cup  from  his 
wife's  hand,  sat  down  again  near  Rhodope.  Davenant 
watched  him  curiously.  He  was  more  restless  than  usual. 
When  he  joined  in  the  conversation,  it  was  generally  a  re 
mark  too  late,  which  made  Florence  look  at  him  with  an 
noyance  mingled  with  surprise,  and  produced  a  slight  break 
in  the  interest.  Perceiving  this,  he  reiterated  his  state 
ments  with  nervous  emphasis,  that  they  might  appear  more 
to  the  point.  Rhodope  had  not  accustomed  herself  to  look 
upon  a  cup  of  tea  at  this  hour  as  a  normal  thing.  She  did 
not  drink  tea  anyway,  but  she  had  learned  that  it  was  easier 
to  make  a  pretence  of  it,  so  she  took  a  cup  and  saucer 
when  the  rest  did,  and  sat  straight  in  her  high-backed  chair, 


212  WHITE    BIRCHES 

holding  it  in  a  stiff  little  way  as  if  she  were  afraid  it  would 
spill.  Medcott  drew  up  a  chair,  and  under  cover  of  the 
general  conversation  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  tone.  Florence 
saw  it  and  was  irritated.  She  thought  it  was  Rhodope's 
way  of  holding  her  cup  that  irritated  her.  Why  couldn't 
she  at  least  play  with  her  teaspoon  like  anybody  else  ? 

"  We  said  something  about  friendship  once,"  Medcott 
had  said;  "do  you  remember?" 

Rhodope  looked  into  his  eyes.  How  long  ago  it  seemed 
— that  morning,  by  Shadow  Pond  !  She  felt  as  if  she  had 
been  so  much  younger  then. 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"And  you  thought  then  that  our  friendship  was  not 
worth  much." 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly,  "  I  guess  I  didn't  think  that.  I 
only  did  not  understand.  There  are  a  good  many  things 
in  the  city  I  don't  understand.  For  instance" — and  she 
spoke  more  lightly — "  I  do  not  understand  when  I  am 
amusing — like  that  time  a  little  while  ago  when  you  laughed. 
I  do  not  mind  it,  for  you  are  not  ill-natured,  but  I  do  not 
know  when  it  is  that  I  say  funny  things.  I  have  found  out 
that  it  is  very  important  to  say  funny  things,"  she  added 
sagely,  "so  I  am  glad  that  I  do." 

"  It  is  only  because  we  have  all  agreed,  we  superficial 
people,  that  when  a  thing  is  so  true  that  it  might  be  dis 
turbing,  we  shall  laugh  at  it — that  is  all." 

"  And  I — am  I  so  true  that  I  might  be  disturbing  ?"  she 
asked  in  all  seriousness. 

"  You  are,"  he  answered  emphatically. 

She  paused  a  minute,  considering  this. 

Florence  dropped  her  sugar-tongs  with  a  little  clatter. 
Davenant  stooped  and  picked  them  up  for  her. 

"  I  think,"  Rhodope  said,  "  that  you  do  not  use  words 
here  in  the  same  way  we  do." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  213 

"  Perhaps  not — and  perhaps  it  is  only  where  there  are  so 
many  more  people  we  have  to  spread  our  feelings  thinner — 
such  as  friendliness,  you  know." 

While  he  said  it,  he  was  conscious  that  knowing  a  num 
ber  of  people  had  done  nothing  to  diminish  his  feeling  for 
her — it  was  strong  and  indivisible — but  he  was  watching 
his  words  and  looks  lest  they  should  say  too  much. 

"I  think  that  is  it,"  said  Rhodope.  Suddenly  it  had 
come  to  her  that  what  he  said  half  in  jest  was  true.  Every 
thing  here,  of  course,  must  go  a  great  way,  and  that  was 
why  it  was  all  on  the  surface.  She  liked  her  way  best. 

"  And  it  is  better  at  home  with  Mount  Marvel  and  Mount 
Innocence  and  Mount  Charity,  is  it  not  ?"  he  said.  She 
wished  he  did  not  so  readily  answer  her  thoughts,  that  he 
did  not  remember  so  well.  It  made  it  more  difficult  to  rec 
ognize  the  superficial  nature  of  the  friendliness. 

"Yes,  I  think  it  is,"  she  answered  quietly.  Medcott 
sighed  as  he  rose.  God  knew  she  was  right — better  for 
her,  if  not  for  him  ! 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  like  your  tea,  Rhodope,"  said  Mrs. 
Needham  from  across  the  room.  Rhodope  started  a  little 
and  then  put  her  cup  down  smiling.  "  For  two  reasons," 
went  on  Florence  with  a  glance  at  Medcott,  "first,  you  are 
not  drinking  it ;  secondly,  you  look  unhappy." 

Rhodope  wondered  what  she  had  done.  Ever  since  she 
came  she  had  had  this  undefinable  consciousness  of  being 
obliged  to  parry  something  that  meant  attack. 

"It  is  not  unhappiness,"  said  Davenant,  regarding  her 
critically,  "it  is  perplexity.  She  can't  see  why  we  don't 
go,  Medcott.  I've  learned  to  recognize  that  look,  and  my 
sensitive  nature  cannot  disregard  it  like  yours.  Good-by, 
Mrs.  Needham." 

"Are  you  fellows  going?"  said  Needham,  starting  up. 
"  I  guess  I'll  go  with  you." 


214  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I  thought  you  had  to  dress,"  said  his  wife. 

"  To  be  sure — that  dinner — no,  I  can't  go.  I  must  dress 
— well,  another  time."  He  spoke  hurriedly,  almost  inco^ 
herently.  "  Wish  I  didn't  have  to  go.  I'd  enough  rather 
dine  with  you  and  Florence,  Miss  Rhodope."  Davenant 
looked  back  at  him  as  he  followed  Medcott  out  of  the 
room. 

Needham  stood  looking  down  at  Rhodope,  frowning  and 
nervously  playing  with  a  cushion  on  her  chair.  Then  he 
started,  met  Davenant's  glance,  dropped  the  cushion,  and 
went  with  his  guests  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

"  Society  seems  to  have  agreed  to  treat  fictions  as  realities  and  real 
ities  as  fictions." 

"  There's  no  clock  in  the  forest." 

"  To  meet  a  few  friends,"  soliloquized  Davenant  as  he 
stood  in  the  corner  of  Florence's  crowded  drawing-room, 
and  watched  the  new  arrivals  salute  their  hostess  with  that 
mingling  of  indifference  and  courtesy  which  in  its  varying 
proportions  marks  the  social  ease  of  the  passing  guest. 
There  were  those  to  whom  a  grasp  of  their  hostess's  hand 
was  but  the  necessary  prelude  to  excitements  and  delights 
beyond,  indefinite  and  entrancing ;  these  were  for  the  most 
part  very  young.  There  were  those  who  clung  to  her  with 
persistence,  and  conversed  with  juvenile  animation,  con 
scious  that,  after  they  had  left  her  side,  the  chances  were 
against  meeting  anybody  else  who  would  feel  obliged  to  be 
stow  upon  them  equal  attention.  There  were  those  who 
went  through  it  as  a  necessary  form,  the  mere  initiative  of 
various  necessary  forms,  all  to  be  gone  through  creditably 
and  without  reluctance,  and  with  as  little  wear  and  tear  as 
possible.  "  A  few  friends,"  thought  Davenant — "  that's  what 
she  told  me — and,  by  Jove !  she  was  right.  She's  asked 
all  the  people  whom  a  self-respecting  person  ought  to  ask, 
and  there  are  not  four  people  in  the  room  whose  friendship 
for  her  amounts  to  the  value  of  a  brass  farthing.  She  has 
sown  her  crop  of  social  seeds,  and  now  she  is  reaping  and 
gathering  into  barns.  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Helena !"  he 
added  aloud,  with  a  respectful  bow  to  the  nuque  of  a  very 


2l6  WHITE    BIRCHES 

young  woman  who  had  just  placed  herself  in  front  of  him, 
and  whose  apple-green  ball-gown  was  admirable  with  the 
white  skin  and  coil  of  golden  hair  which  were  presented  to 
his  view.  The  girl  faced  about  and  offered  for  further  in 
spection  a  face  whose  irregular  prettiness  was  very  attrac 
tive.  "  For  a  girl  who  had  picked  up  her  features  here  and 
there,  just  as  it  happened,"  Davenant  had  said  on  a  former 
occasion,  "Helena  Screed  was  a  most  successful -looking 
girl." 

"  Oh,  thanks  be  where  they  are  due  !"  she  exclaimed ;  "  it's 
you,  Mr.  Davenant,"  and  without  fruitless  timidity  she 
wedged  herself  backward  and  stood  by  his  side.  "  I  tell 
you  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  she  went  on  in  lively  tones  that 
still  were  not  loud ;  "  I  just  cast  my  eyes  helplessly  about; 
the  way  one  does,  you  know,  when  you've  said  good-even 
ing,  and  not  a  soul  did  I  see  that  I'd  waste  a  minute  of  this 
new  gown  on,  and  not  even  anybody  that  I'd  just  hang  on 
to  a  moment  till  I  found  something  better — kind  of  life-pre 
server,  you  know — except  Henry  Waterford,  and  Edwina's 
got  him;  and  I'm  sure  I'm  glad  of  it  and  welcome,  for  if 
Edwina  does  get  anybody  and  keep  him — why,  it's  nothing  but 
a  special  dispensation  —  they  have  to  drop  down  out  of 
nowhere — 'out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here,'  you  know 
— and  be  left  right  in  front  of  her,  or  she  doesn't  know 
enough  to  take  notice — and  I  was  just  thinking  it  was  going 
to  be  an  awful  party,  when  you  spoke,  and  thank  goodness 
you  did.  How  did  you  come  to  be  right  there,  anyway  ?" 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  come  and  take  care  of  me." 

"  I  fancy  you  didn't  know  whether  it  was  I  that  would 
come  and  take  care  of  you  or  not,"  laughed  Miss  Screed 
with  the  utmost  gayety.  "  You'd  better  be  pretty  thankful 
it  is  nobody  worse." 

"  What  I  want  to  know  now  is  whether  or  not  I'm  a  life- 
preserver  or  a  permanent  anchor." 


WHITE   BIRCHES  217 

Helena  glanced  around  the  room  with  apparent  indiffer 
ence  and  a  good  deal  of  actual  sharpness. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  admitted  with  some  frankness, 
"  that  depends  on  you." 

"  It  does  and  it  doesn't,"  returned  Davenant,  with  the 
evenness  of  his  temperament.  "  You  might  as  well  tell  me 
now  who  it  is  you  want  most  to  have  talk  to  you.  Of  course 
I  know  you'd  rather  have  me  than  anybody  else,  but  who 
comes  next  ?" 

At  this  point  Miss  Helena  slipped  her  hand  through  his 
arm  and  imparted  a  most  energetic  though  dissimulated 
impetus  to  his  frame,  which  brought  them  both  nearer  the 
corner  and  gave  them  the  effect  of  making  their  way  through 
the  crowd.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  an  expression 
of  blinding  innocence,  but  her  low  tone  was  impassioned  to 
a  positive  degree. 

"  Whatever  you  do,"  she  murmured — "  whatever  you  do, 
henceforth  and  forever,  don't  you  leave  me  now !" 

A  tall,  thin,  studious-looking  young  man,  whose  manner 
was  not  that  of  light-hearted  youth,  and  whose  dress-coat 
appeared  to  have  been  assumed  for  purposes  of  disguise, 
wearing  eye-glasses,  his  head  slightly  bent  forward,  and  his 
mild  gaze  wandering  over  the  tops  of  most  of  the  people,  had 
suddenly  discovered  in  Helena  an  objective  point  of  evident 
importance.  With  fixed  attention  and  flickering  smile  he 
had  begun  to  make  his  way  towards  them,  when  her  sudden 
tactics  caused  him  to  halt,  and  then  move  somewhat  aim 
lessly  in  another  direction,  convinced  that  it  was  in  vain  to 
pursue  them. 

"  Has  it  gone  ?"  inquired  Helena  feverishly,  as  she  moved 
her  fan  with  the  coolness  of  restraint. 

"  I  think  it  has,"  said  Davenant,  glancing  about ;  "  there 
isn't  anything  coming." 

"  I  thought  it  was  all  over,"  she  sighed  in  relief.     "  He's 


2l8  WHITE   BIRCHES 

the  kind  you  have  for  the  evening,  you  know/'  she  ex 
plained  ;  "  they  don't  let  them  for  a  shorter  time.  There  !" 
she  commented,  in  a  tone  of  distinct  scorn,  "  he's  run  up 
against  Edwina.  She  might  have  known  he  would,  and 
she's  let  Henry  Waterford  just  drift  off  with  that  Schemer- 
horn  girl.  I  never  witnessed  anything  so  pitiful.  Well,  she 
may  just  as  well  sit  down  and  do  her  sewing  now,  for  he'll 
stay  till  she  goes  home." 

"  You  don't  care  much  for  your  sister's  methods,  do  you  ?" 
asked  Davenant.  He  seldom  failed  to  find  Miss  Screed 
amusing. 

"  Methods  !"  she  repeated  with  contempt.  "  She  hasn't 
any !  It's  just  hit  or  miss  with  her.  She  isn't  sure  enough 
when  she's  having  the  best  kind  of  a  time,  anyway,  to  keep 
hold  of  it.  I'm  the  only  one  that  knows  what  either  of  us 
is  at." 

"  Well,  you  haven't  told  me  yet,  you  know,  what  I'm  to 
do." 

"  Haven't  I  ?  I  don't  want  you —  Gracious  !"  she  broke 
off  as  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  herself  in  the  mirror  that  her 
change  of  position  had  brought  her  in  front  of.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  such  freckles !  Such  awful  ones  and  so  many ! 
Just  all  over  my  nose  !  Can  you  see  anything  else  ?" 

Davenant  surveyed,  at  his  leisure,  the  bridge  of  her  small, 
unclassified  nose,  while  she  awaited  anxiously  the  result. 

"Yes,"  he  said  deliberately,  "remains  of  features  still 
survive  and  even  assert — " 

"  I  never  expected  to  find  you  two  people  in  a  corner !" — 
Florence's  light  tones  were  close  at  hand.  "Helena,  is  it 
possible  you  didn't  know  that  there  are  several  recesses 
across  the  hall,  where  discreet  seclusion  reigns?  —  that  I 
find  you  here  in  the  garish  light  of  gas-jets  ?" 

Florence  was  very  beautiful  to-night.  She  wore  glisten 
ing,  gleaming  white,  with  diamond  ornaments,  and  her 


WHITE    BIRCHES  219 

blonde  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  charming  complexion  glistened 
and  gleamed  with  a  sheen  of  their  own. 

Helena's  frank  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  with  admiration  un- 
softened  by  affection. 

"  Are  there,  really,  Mrs.  Needham  ?  But  I  should  know 
that  you  would  provide  for  all  your  guests !  But  you  and  I 
— and  Mr.  Davenant — we  like  bright  places  best,  because 
we  look  so  nice.  And  Mr.  Davenant  has  promised  to  look 
after  me  till — well,  till  I  want  to  be  secluded  and  discreet." 
Florence's  eyes  grew  a  little  harder ;  she  did  not  like  Hele 
na,  and  she  always  had  an  odd  sort  of  jealousy  of  Dave- 
nant's  companions,  though  less  poignant  than  her  feeling 
where  Medcott  was  concerned. 

"  I  don't  know,"  went  on  Helena  with  charming  candor, 
"  how  he'd  be  after  that,  do  you  ?"  Her  gray  eyes  rivalled 
Florence's  blue  ones  in  their  quiet  innocence  as  her  voice 
fell  into  the  question — one  would  never  dream  that  she  had 
heard  any  reference  to  the  early  or  later  relations  between 
this  man  and  woman. 

Florence  glanced  involuntarily  from  her  to  Davenant 
and  bit  her  lip. 

"  I  should  never  dare  to  offer  any  suggestion  to  so  well- 
informed  a  debutante  as  Helena  Screed,"  she  said  as  she 
was  obliged  to  turn  away  to  greet  some  late-comers. 

"After  the  conclusion  of  which  amenities,"  said  Helena, 
as  if  she  were  finishing  a  story,  "they  both  returned  to 
their  respective  duties.  What  do  you  suppose  she  wants 
you  for  ?  She  needn't  try  to  take  you  away  as  unblushingly 
as  that  again." 

"  I  don't  think  she  wanted  me  at  all." 

"  Yes,  she  did  "  —  time  was  wasted,  always,  in  arguing 
with  Helena.  "  I  think  it  was  to  go  after  that  tall  Miss 
Trent,  who  has  just  left  the  room  with  Austin  Medcott.  She 
didn't  like  her  going — I  saw  that  the  time  I  looked  in  the 
glass." 


220  WHITE   BIRCHES 

Davenant  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little,  and  then  he 
laughed. 

"  You're  something  of  an  observer,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  let  much  go  by  me,"  she  assented  complacently. 
"  Edwina  raves  over  that  Miss  Trent,  you  know.  She 
thinks  she's  a  perfect  beauty,  and  so  grand  and  stately, 
and  so  truthful  and  so — oh  !  you  know  Edwina." 

"Yes,  and  her  superiority  to  you.  And  I  know  Miss 
Trent,  too." 

"  And  so  you  rave  over  her  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  assented  again.  "They  talk  of  putting  me 
under  personal  restraint,  but — " 

"  So  far  you've  escaped  ? — yes — well,  I  think  she's  beau 
tiful  too,  but  I  don't  care  very  much  for  her,  because  she 
doesn't  know  it  herself.  If  there  is  anything  that  vexes  me 
it  is  for  a  woman  like  that  not  to  know  the  value  of  her 
own  looks,  and  to  go  about  just  as  if  she  were — why — 
plain.  What's  the  good  of  being  a  beauty  if  you  don't 
know  it  ?"  She  paused  for  rhetorical  effect.  "  It  may  be 
all  very  well  in  the  woods  where  Edwina  says  she  came 
from,  but  I  say  it's  worse  than  useless  here." 

Davenant  smiled  at  the  truth  of  her  observation.  This 
wise  young  woman  had  hit  upon  the  very  thing  that  had 
struck  Medcott  and  himself — that  Rhodope's  advantages 
were  turned,  in  this  environment,  to  her  disadvantage. 

"  Then  she  has  such  a  way  of  trying  to  get  at  your  point 
of  view,  don't  you  know.  Edwina  gave  a  luncheon  for  her 
the  other  day,  and  I  talked  with  her  a  long  time.  If  she 
only  thought  her  point  of  view  was  better,  like  a  Boston 
girl,  you  know,  then  you  could  resent  it  and  everything  be 
pleasant.  But  she  doesn't  think  hers  is  better ;  it  is  only 
that  you  know  in  your  soul  it  is,  and  she  tries  to  get  to 
yours,  and  it's  awful." 

"  I've  found  that  same  difficulty  myself,"  said  Davenant. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  221 

"  Well,  if  you  have,  think  of  the  rest  of  us  !  It's  your  busi 
ness,  as  it  were,  to  get  at  people's  points  of  view,  but  Flor 
ence  and  I,  now !  By  the  way,  however,  does  she  get  on 
with  Florence  Needham  ?  /  can  get  even  with  Florence, 
you  know,  without  any  trouble,  but  Miss  Trent !  why,  she'd 
have  to  come  down  three  flights  of  stairs  to  get  even  with 
her.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  she  wore  green  !"  The  transit  of  a 
dark,  colorless  young  woman  in  a  green  gown  aided  Dave- 
nant  to  follow  his  companion's  sudden  change  of  theme. 

"  I  should  know  you  would  be,"  he  remarked  as  he  noted 
the  costume's  distinct  unbecomingness.  "  I  don't  know  the 
circumstances,  but  I  should  know  you  would  on  general 
principles." 

"You  see,"  said  Helena  confidentially,  "she  thinks  she 
can  wear  anything  that  is  the  fashion,  and  Walter  Mevans" 
— and  her  fan  fluttered  almost  imperceptibly  in  the  direction 
of  a  fine-looking  young  fellow  who  had  entered  the  room 
five  minutes  earlier — "  has  been  inclined,  of  late,  to  think 
her  handsome — dangerously  inclined.  He's  looking  at  her 
now — and  by  and  by  when  he  looks  at  me  " — an  unmistak 
ably  confident  glance  at  the  mirror  completed  her  sen 
tence. 

"  So  it  is  he  that  is  the  anchor  and  the  port  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  in  preparation  for  which  I  have  simply  been  keep 
ing  your  head  above  water  ?"  asked  Davenant,  as  one  be 
yond  sense  of  injury. 

"  Well,  if  he  should  happen  to  stray  over  here  I  wouldn't 
have  you  bore  yourself  with  us,"  she  admitted  with  her 
usual  frankness.  "  He's  young,  you  see,  and  crude — oh  ! 
very  crude — and,  of  course,  I  know  how  much  you  care 
about  talking  to  me"  and  she  laughed  at  him  over  her 
gauze  fan. 

"  So  the  gown  won't  be  wasted  on  him,"  he  remarked, 
looking  her  over. 


222  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"No,  I  think  it  won't  —  speaking  after  the  manner  of 
men,"  she  acquiesced.  "  I  don't  mean  it  shall." 

"  It  hasn't  been  wasted  on  me,  by  the  way.  It  strikes 
me  as  an  extremely  good  one." 

"I  think  it  is,"  she  agreed  with  pleased  alacrity.  "  It's 
just  out  of  the  custom-house,  and  I've  seldom  fancied  my 
self  more  in  anything." 

"Good-evening,  Miss  Helena,"  said  a  strong,  youthful 
voice,  whose  intonation  somehow  betrayed  that  the  speaker 
fancied  her  in  it,  too.  Helena  started  violently  and  looked 
back  over  her  white  shoulder  with  an  adorable  turn  of  her 
eyelashes.  He  was  very  tall,  and  he  continued  to  look 
down  at  her  smiling. 

"It  is  not  the  Fourth  of  July,"  she  objected;  "boys  are 
forbidden  to  scare  the  timid  public  on  other  days.  Why 
do  you  come  disguised  as  a  torpedo  ?" 

"  I  never  frightened  you  yet,"  answered  the  young  man 
with  some  penetration. 

"  But  you  have  me,"  interposed  Davenant.  "  Good-by," 
he  added  to  Helena,  "  and  think  where  you  might  have 
been,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me." 

As  he  passed  Florence,  she  called  him  back. 

"  Tom,"  she  said,  with  an  insistent  inflection  that  was 
not  unflattering;  "please  find  Charlie  for  me.  I  want  him 
to  talk  to  at  least  three  women — three  perfectly  impossible 
women.  He  never  helps  me  out  of  anything." 

There  was  a  plaintiveness  in  her  impatience  which  im 
plied  that  there  were  times  when  sympathy  was  itself  an 
assistance. 

"  Am  I  not  fitted  to  cope  with  one  or  two  of  them  single- 
handed  ?"  he  asked.  "  Where  do  they  lurk  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I'm  not  going  to  squander  you  on 
them.  Find  Charlie  and  send  him  over  to  that  woman  on 
the  sofa.  She  came  with  Miss  Unwin.  No  matter  about 
her  name.  I  didn't  hear  it,  anyway." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  223 

"  The  one  with  the  beads  about  the  foot  of  her  neck  ?  I 
must  have  an  itemized  description." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Florence,  laughing;  "make  haste — do! 
She  has  been  alone  for  hours,  and  I  have  a  dreadful  sus 
picion  she  is  somebody  important — and,  then,  please  come 
back." 

It  was  some  time  before  he  found  Needham.  He  looked 
into  the  supper-room,  but  did  not  see  him,  and  went  on  to 
the  others.  He  was  in  none  of  them ;  but  as  he  passed  a 
second  time  the  door  of  the  supper-room,  he  caught  sight  of 
him  with  a  glass  of  champagne  in  his  hand.  As  Davenant 
entered  and  came  towards  him,  he  flushed  and  put  the  wine 
down  untasted. 

"  So  you  were  looking  for  me  ?"  he  said,  with  not  entirely 
suppressed  impatience. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  ?"  asked  Davenant,  surprised. 
"  Did  you  see  me  here  before  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  looking  after  the  wine.  I  stepped  out  for  a 
moment,"  answered  Needham  confusedly,  "  and  I  saw  you 
go  by  a  moment  ago." 

Evidently  he  had  said  more  than  he  meant  to.  He  was 
nervously  uneasy,  and  his  hand  trembled  as  he  pushed  a 
glass  towards  Davenant. 

"  Not  now,  thank  you,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  was  looking  for 
you,  as  it  happens.  Your  wife  sent  me  to  find  you.  She 
wants  you  to  talk  to  some  people."  He  wondered  why 
Needham  had  attempted  to  evade  him,  and  he  did  not  un 
derstand  his  manner,  but  it  was  no  time  to  seek  an  expla 
nation  ;  there  were  several  people  in  the  room  ;  besides,  it 
didn't  matter  much,  Charlie  Needham  was  always  restless 
and  more  or  less  unaccountable. 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  to  people,"  said  Needham,  fortu 
nately  in  a  low  voice,  but  savagely.  "  Isn't  it  enough  for  her 
to  have  the  house  full  of  a  lot  of  them  that  wouldn't  re- 


224  WHITE   BIRCHES 

member  her  day  after  to-morrow,  if  it  wasn't  worth  their 
while,  without  dragging  me  into  it !"  He  put  down  his 
glass,  empty  this  second  time.  Davenant  watched  him, 
wondering  how  many  glasses  he  had  already  emptied ;  not 
many,  he  concluded — it  was  not  the  result  of  that  sort  of 
excitement. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  tell  her  you  are  not  in  just  the  humor 
for  a  rout  ?"  he  inquired  dryly.  "  Or  that  you  are  slightly 
indisposed  ?" 

"  No,  hang  it !  I'll  go  with  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "  May 
as  well  see  it  through.  You  know  I  don't  mean  you,  Tom," 
he  added  as  they  sauntered  out  of  the  room,  "  or  any 
body  else  that's  a  friend — but  now  and  then  I  get  sick  of 
the  whole  cursed  business."  The  frown  on  his  forehead 
was  reduced  to  its  usual  indentation  as  they  went  on  tow 
ards  Florence.  Evidently  Davenant  was  the  only  one  of 
his  guests  whom  he  intended  to  allow  to  perceive  his  ill- 
humor.  There  was  no  hesitation  in  Florence's  manner  as 
she  laid  her  hand  on  Davenant's  arm.  She  knew  precisely 
the  direction  in  which  she  wished  to  go,  and  she  took  it,  al 
though  she  paused  here  and  there  to  speak  to  her  guests, 
and  maintained  a  certain  apparent  inattention  to  any  ob 
ject  she  might  have  in  view  which  did  not  deceive  her  com 
panion.  As  she  preceded  him  in  the  doorway  through 
which  Rhodope  and  Medcott  had  disappeared  half  an  hour 
ago,  she  turned  and  looked  back  at  him  as  if  for  approval 
of  what  she  had  not  even  hinted  she  was  about  to  do.  Her 
hands  fell  before  her,  lightly  clasped  about  some  flowers 
she  was  carrying,  her  blue  eyes,  voluntarily  softened,  and 
her  small  mouth  gave  her  beauty  a  look  of  extreme  youth, 
which  the  somewhat  too  full  outlines  of  her  figure  failed  to 
efface.  Her  hand  was  on  the  Oriental  portiere,  which  in  its 
mingling  of  colors  made  an  effective  background  for  the 
whiteness  of  her  gown,  her  arms,  her  throat,  and  her  dia- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  225 

monds.  There  was  no  one  very  near  them — as  nearness 
goes  in  a  crowded  parlor.  The  room  was  full  of  the  din  of 
many  voices,  which  swept  to  their  ears  and  ebbed  from 
them  like  the  meaningless  sound  of  inarticulate  utterances. 
As  far  as  eyes  and  voices  went  they  were  alone.  Davenant 
looked  down  at  her  with  an  expression  that  she  did  not  un 
derstand.  He  was  a  little  troubled  by  Needham's  manner; 
knowing  what  he  knew,  he  saw  trouble  ahead  for  this  wom 
an  whom  he  had  once  loved,  and  to  whom,  in  her  brilliant, 
somewhat  hard  beauty,  trouble  would  come  like  a  stinging 
blow  rather  than  a  stern  discipline.  Nor  was  this  all.  His 
knowledge  of  these  underlying  possibilities,  with  the  in 
consistencies  and  the  ordinary  social  insincerities,  which 
usually  sat  lightly  enough  upon  his  shoulders,  seemed  to 
make  unstable  at  the  best,  perhaps  impossible,  the  happi 
ness  of  another  woman,  whose  happiness  he  would  gladly 
have  assured.  All  this  lent  his  expression,  as  he  looked  at 
Florence,  something  which  was  not  usually  to  be  found 
there.  His  glance  was  less  cynical,  a  slightly  troubled  look 
softened  the  keenness  of  his  eyes,  and  Florence's  con 
sciousness  thrilled  with  sudden  satisfaction.  She  was  con 
sumed  with  jealous  impatience  to  find  Medcott  and  take 
him  away  from  Rhodope,  but  the  emotion  she  felt  for  him 
could  not  blind  her  to  the  brilliancy  of  this  illumination. 

"  You  are  coming  with  me  ?"  she  said,  her  hand  still  on 
the  portiere.  It  was  not  a  question ;  it  was  only  that  she 
wished  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am  going  with  you,"  he  answered,  and  she 
went  on.  "  I'm  going  with  you  until  it  seems  to  me  time 
to  stop,"  he  added.  She  turned  quickly  and  met  his 
glance.  The  amusement  with  which  he  usually  surveyed 
her  had  come  back,  and  the  softness  had  vanished  under 
it,  but  she  laughed  back  at  him — she  was  so  sure  she  had 
not  been  mistaken ;  it  had  been  there  a  moment  before. 
15 


226  WHITE    BIRCHES 

When  Medcott  went  up  to  Rhodope  where  she  was 
standing  at  Florence's  side,  with  that  tendency  towards 
tropical  expression  characteristic  of  lovers,  he  had  thought 
that  she  seemed  a  tall,  white,  fragrant  lily,  such  as  grow  in 
old  summer  gardens,  placed  in  the  midst  of  an  artistic  but 
artificial  arrangement  of  beautiful,  brilliant  exotics.  The 
fact  that  the  suggestion  lacked  something  in  novelty  did 
not  in  the  least  annoy  him  ;  he  was  convinced  that  it  could 
never  have  been,  on  former  occasions,  so  entirely  appro 
priate.  He  had  greeted  her  formally  and  then  gone  away, 
to  wait  until  he  could  claim  her  for  something  more  than 
a  moment's  interview.  As  he  stood  aside  he  watched  her 
carefully,  and  briefly  put  together  the  conclusions  he  had 
drawn  during  the  two  or  three  weeks  of  her  stay.  She  had 
changed,  he  thought.  In  reality  she  had  changed  more 
than  he  guessed,  more  than  could  be  accounted  for  by  the 
new  influences  she  had  been  placed  under  of  late.  She 
was  paler,  and  the  uncomprehending  look  that  shadowed 
her  eyes  when  she  was  faced  by  problems  that  she  could 
not  solve  had  grown  to  be  their  most  usual  expression.  It 
had  saddened  her  a  little,  he  thought,  this  want  of  harmo 
ny  between  her  own  ideas  and  those  of  the  people  around 
her;  it  could  not  but  be  unhappiness  for  her,  he  sighed, 
as  one  who  faces  conclusions  he  is  not  altogether  pre 
pared  to  abide  by.  Rhodope  saw  him  enter  the  room, 
watched  him  make  his  way  through  the  crowd,  smiled,  and 
gave  him  her  hand  when  he  reached  her,  and  then  was 
conscious  that  he  moved  away  as  she  spoke  to  the  next 
person  whom  Mrs.  Needham  presented.  That  was  all 
that  there  had  been  of  their  meeting,  and  it  was  a  disap 
pointment  far  removed  from  that  which  it  would  once  have 
been.  She  was  no  longer  the  girl  whose  vivid  color  leaped 
into  her  face,  and  whose  shy  eyes  fell  in  the  presence  of 
this  man,  whose  power  over  her  was  nevertheless  not  dis- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  227 

pelled.  Lonely  months  of  calm  thought  and  brave  recogni 
tion  accomplish  with  certain  characters  what  social  training 
does  with  others.  Though  she  had  not  escaped  the  shadow 
of  regret  that  marked  the  passage  of  what  might  have  been 
so  much  and  was  so  little,  she  had  learned  that  such  regret 
was  no  unusual  and  unbearable  thing.  After  even  this  short 
experience  of  new  conditions  she  instinctively  submitted  to 
the  unwritten  laws  that  possibilities  were  ignored  in  this 
atmosphere,  and  that  the  superficial  and  the  patent  alone 
were  recognized.  It  had  all  been  a  disappointment — there 
seemed  to  be  very  little  else.  So  she  greeted  Austin  Med- 
cott  with  calm  evenness,  and  knew  that  he  went  away  from 
her,  and  thought  without  rebellion,  only  with  that  same  re 
gret,  that  she  should  not  see  him  again  that  evening.  She 
looked  down  at  the  sweet-peas  she  held  in  her  hand;  she 
had  not  even  had  the  opportunity  to  thank  him  for  them. 
It  had  touched  her  inexpressibly  that  he  should  have  sent 
them  to  her.  Would  he  think  she  had  forgotten  ?  As  she 
had  opened  the  box  and  seen  them  lying  in  it  in  their  pink 
and  purple  daintiness,  how  that  sunny  morning  came  back 
to  her,  when  she  had  given  him  that  bunch  of  them  at  the 
open  window  !  She  almost  caught  the  scent  of  the  meadow- 
grass  as  it  had  mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  blossoms. 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  caught  the  clear,  grand,  peaceful 
outlines  of  Mystery.  Would  he  think  for  a  moment  that 
she  had  forgotten  !  Now,  she  looked  about  the  room,  an 
swered  something  Mrs.  Needham  said  to  her,  saw  Charlie 
Needham,  laughing,  break  off  a  rose  from  a  mass  of  them 
near  him,  and  give  it  to  a  pretty  girl  who  pinned  it  in  her 
dress,  and  then  noted,  without  understanding,  the  fretful 
impatience  of  his  face  as  soon  as  the  smile  left  his  lips.  So 
this  was  the  world — the  real  world.  And  the  cold  solitudes 
of  mountain  and  valley,  where  were  Jib  and  Elizabeth  and 
General  Downing  and  Abijah  Stetson  and  the  store,  were 


228  WHITE    BIRCHES 

but  wastes,  almost  unpeopled,  where  the  sounds  of  real  ex 
istence  scarcely  penetrated.  She  smiled,  half  amused,  half 
sympathetically,  as  she  remembered  the  General's  apprehen 
sive  warnings.  There  were  a  lot  of  folks— and  it  was  all 
brilliant  and  beautiful  enough  certainly — this  real  world. 
The  fitful  stir  of  perfumed  fans,  the  sparkle  of  gold  and 
silver,  the  superb  contours  of  arms  and  shoulders,  the  har 
monious  coloring  and  graceful  drapery  of  silk  and  velvet, 
the  misty  daintiness  of  gauzes  and  laces,  the  light  voices 
and  gay  laughter,  the  studied  deference  of  some  men,  the 
cool  observation,  the  pronounced  admiration  of  others— 
this  was  the  world,  and  she  was  not  of  it — it  was  not  hers. 

"  Miss  Rhodope,  will  you  come  with  me  ?  The  social 
waters  have  ceased  to  break  and  recede  at  the  base  of  your 
and  Mrs.  Needham's  immobility.  Really,  you  need  not 
stay  here  any  longer." 

She  looked  up  quickly  into  his  face — she  had  not  seen 
him  approaching.  Suddenly  this  world  took  on  a  new 
aspect;  after  all,  it  meant  existence  too— even  for  her. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  will  come." 

Medcott  led  her  through  the  rooms  into  the  potential 
library,  and  beyond  to  a  smaller  room,  whose  retirement 
had  been  more  than  once  gratefully  invaded  by  the  wisdom 
of  men  which  is  sometimes  foolishness,  but  was  for  the 
moment  undisturbed.  It  was  sweet  with  a  great  bowl  of 
flowers,  it  was  far  enough  removed  from  the  music  to  have 
that  seem  an  accompaniment  to  conversation  rather  than 
an  audacious  defiance.  It  was  lighted  by  shaded  candles 
in  many-branched  sconces.  Altogether,  it  was  a  satisfac 
tory  product  of  civilization.  He  seated  her  in  a  large  arm 
chair,  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  this  delicate,  almost  poetic 
suggestiveness, 

"  I  am  going  to  bring  you  some  supper,"  he  baldly  an 
nounced.  Rhodope  laughed  her  rare,  sweet  laugh. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  229 

"  Is  it  to  be  sandwiches  ?"  she  asked,  thinking  of  their 
morning  at  Shadow  Pond.  Suddenly  all  that  time  had 
drawn  nearer.  It  did  not  seem  only  a  remembered  dream ; 
instead  it  was  a  part  of  the  present.  She  was  again  in  the 
freedom  of  an  atmosphere  where  looks  and  words  and  tones 
were  not  a  shield  and  a  disguise. 

"  Sandwiches  !"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  I  would  not  dare  to  offer 
them  to  you.  Sandwiches  like  those  of  Shadow  Pond  do 
not  flourish  hereabouts — they  are  a  different  thing  alto 
gether.  But  we  must  have  a  makeshift." 

They  were  together  a  long  time. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  valley  next  summer,"  said  Medcott, 
as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  course.  "  I  am  thinking  of  going 
up  earlier  to  get  spring  effects  in  the  woods."  He  almost 
smiled  at  his  own  matter-of-fact  way  of  stating  it.  Of  course 
he  would  go,  as  soon  as  she  would  let  him.  From  the  mo 
ment  that  she  had  turned  with  him  from  the  reception- 
room  that  evening,  he  had  had  no  manner  of  doubt  that 
he  should  tell  her  he  loved  her.  All  doubts,  questionings, 
fears  for  her  happiness,  had  vanished  and  were  as  if  they 
had  never  been.  What  in  her  absence  seemed  dark  disad 
vantages  looming  in  the  foreground,  in  her  presence  sank 
into  their  natural  place  of  unimportant  accessories.  As 
he  looked  at  her  in  her  low  chair  under  the  pink  light  of 
the  candles,  a  touch  of  weariness  in  her  attitude,  utterly 
foreign  to  the  buoyant  strength  of  the  woman  that  had  gone 
with  him  to  Shadow  Pond,  he  wondered  that  he  could  ever 
have  hesitated.  What  had  led  him  to  dream  that  he  could 
restrain  at  will  this  headlong  sweep  of  feeling  that  made  it 
the  purpose  of  his  life  to  be  near  her,  to  hear  her  speak, 
to  watch  her  eyes,  to  tell  her  he  loved  her  ?  It  had  been 
the  thought  of  her  possible  unhappiness,  to  be  sure,  that 
had  held  him  back,  but  if  she  cared  for  him  she  should  not 
be  unhappy — they  would  go  somewhere  where  her  happi- 


230  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ness  should  not  be  tampered  with.  If  she  cared  for  him ! 
He  observed  her  with  a  certain  diffidence.  Notwithstand 
ing  her  quietness,  she  was  more  like  the  Rhodope  of  the 
hills  than  she  had  been  before,  since  he  had  seen  her  this 
second  time.  She  was  as  quick  to  respond  to  an  idea  that 
pleased  her,  as  direct,  as  fearless  in  her  speech,  and  now 
and  then  the  odd  little  turn  of  language  came  back,  but 
less  frequently,  for  the  more  conventional  influences  had 
already  affected  her  in  this  respect  But  the  subtle  change 
was  there,  that  a  less  observant  man  might  have  missed.  If 
she  cared  for  him ! 

"  You  ask  me  once  in  a  while  if  I  remember  this  or  that," 
he  said.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  have  forgotten  anything  ?" 

Rhodope  weighed  the  meaning  of  the  inflection. 

"  It  was  different  with  you,"  she  said,  "  it  was  not  so  new." 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  he  answered  boldly,  "  it  was  utterly  differ 
ent  from  anything  I  had  ever  known."  He  did  not  mean 
to  tell  her  here  in  this  blaze  of  light,  in  Florence  Need- 
ham's  presence,  as  it  were,  and  in  the  midst  of  surround 
ings  so  foreign  to  their  truest  lives ;  but  he  could  not  keep 
his  voice  from  tenderness,  and  his  words  from  straying  on 
the  borders  of  confession. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  lion,  too  ?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly  I  remember  the  lion,"  he  answered  readily; 
"  one  does  not  easily  forget  royalty."  But  what  he  remem 
bered  was  her  figure  as  she  stood  in  front  of  the  cage,  and 
how  he  had  felt  himself  chained  by  circumstances,  with  an 
impatience  equal  to  that  of  the  brute.  What  had  become 
of  those  hampering  restrictions  ?  Had  they  ever  been  ? 

"  I  would  like  to  have  had  that  lion  care  for  me,"  said 
Rhodope  thoughtfully — "  really  have  a  regard  for  me." 

"  You  women  all  have  a  passion  for  bringing  into  sub 
jection.  What  would  you  have  done  with  him  ?  Would 
you  like  to  lead  him  about  like  a  spaniel  ?" 


WHITE    BIRCHES  231 

" No  !"  she  said  quickly,  " never !  Why  do  you  say  'you 
women '?  Do  you  think  all  women  are  alike  ?"  she  ques 
tioned  gravely. 

"  Heaven  forefend  !  But  you  all  like  to  hold  in  leash 
something  stronger  than  you  are."  Rhodope  thought  this 
over  with  that  serious  simplicity  that  perceived  no  possible 
personal  application,  and  which  Medcott  found  so  charm 
ing. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  that  is  true  or  not." 

Medcott  laughed.  "  Your  disposition  to  accept  my  sim 
ple  statements  is  flattering." 

She  laughed  a  little  too,  but  said,  still  seriously, 

"  I  would  like  to  accept  everything  like  that,  if  I  could. 
But  I  cannot.  It  is  not  safe.  One  is  mistaken." 

Nothing  was  further  from  her  thoughts  than  any  hint  of 
reproach,  but  Medcott  felt  something  in  her  words  that  was 
not  there. 

"  I  know  now  what  one  should  do,"  she  went  on  with  the 
assured  air  of  discovery  that  she  had  had  often  of  late. 
"  One  should  appear  to  believe,  and  laugh  at  it  afterwards, 
if  one  does  not." 

"  Would  that  Davenant  might  hear  you !"  ejaculated 
Medcott. 

"  But  I  have  not  learned  it  yet,"  she  concluded.  "  It  is 
not  easy." 

The  confession  was  very  near  his  lips  that  truth,  and  truth 
only,  was  possible  with  her,  and  that  truth  meant  love.  He 
bent  over  her,  her  hand  was  near  his,  it  was  perilously 
easy  to  take  it  when  he  spoke.  Rhodope  turned  her  eyes 
and  looked  at  him.  She  colored  a  little  to  find  him  so 
near,  his  eyes  on  her  face,  something  deeper  in  them  than 
the  attention  with  which  he  always  listened  to  her.  In 
his  simple  presence  there  was  an  emotion  stronger  than 
any  other  that  had  stirred  her  life,  but  she  had  learned 


232  WHITE   BIRCHES 

to  look  upon  it  as  one  which  should  not  extend  itself.  She 
had  met  him  over  and  over  and  had  been  confirmed  in  her 
acquiescence.  But  what  did  this  mean  ? — this  sudden  dis 
turbance  of  their  calm  relations,  which  yet  were  just  what 
they  had  been.  She,  too,  felt  that  some  barrier  had  been 
swept  away  in  that  moment,  and  that  they  were  together 
with  nothing  to  keep  them  away  from  each  other,  as  it  had 
been  that  last  evening  in  the  valley  when  they  had  watched 
the  sun  set  and  the  moon  rise. 

' '  We're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows ! 

But  not  quite  so  sunk,  that  moments 
Sure,  though  seldom,  are  denied  us, 

When  the  spirit's  true  endowments 
Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones — " 

He  paused  a  moment,  the  words  still  unsaid ;  not  that 
he  doubted  if  he  should  say  them,  but  not  here  and  now. 
In  the  moment  Rhodope  rose. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked,  dismayed  that 
his  hour  of  happiness  was  to  be  cut  short. 

"  I  must  go  back,"  she  said  uncertainly.  It  was  not  that 
she  dreaded  unfriendly  criticism  if  she  stayed  with  him 
longer ;  it  was  with  no  thought  of  any  conventionality  what 
ever.  Perhaps  it  was  that  conscientiousness  which  sug 
gests  that  entire  happiness  cannot  be  dissociated  from  moral 
dereliction.  Perhaps  it  was  born  of  a  fatalistic  desire  to  go 
away  before  this  happiness  be  disturbed  as  it  must  be. 

People  had  been  coming  into  and  going  from  the  library 
while  they  talked — sometimes  there  were  a  dozen  people 
in  it  and  sometimes  more.  Just  now  that,  as  well  as  this 
smaller  room,  was  empty,  save  for  themselves.  She  stood 
before  him  gravely  regarding  him,  her  gray  eyes  with  their 
moving  shadows  suggesting  the  sunlight  rather  than  the 
shade. 

"  Rhodope,"  he  said,  coming  nearer.     Her  eyes  fell  be- 


WHITE   BIRCHES  233 

fore  his.  There  was  a  sudden  exclamation,  a  flash  of  light, 
and  he  had  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  her  head  fell  on 
his  shoulder,  why  and  how  she  did  not  quite  know.  It  was 
just  at  this  moment  that  Florence  and  Davenant  appeared 
at  the  distant  library  door.  The  two  figures  started  into 
prominence  like  those  of  a  picture  at  the  end  of  a  skilfully 
managed  vista — Rhodope  in  Medcott's  arms. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Florence  in  a  curious  hushed  tone 
unlike  her  usual  light  voice,  "  I  think  it  is  as  well  that  I  am 
looking  after  my  guests."  Between  unreasoning  fury  with 
Medcott  and  utter  disgust  with  himself  for  allowing  Flor 
ence  to  make  him  a  participator  in  this  scene  and  with  her 
for  bringing  him,  for  an  instant  Davenant  was  silent.  In 
that  instant  he  saw  Medcott  put  Rhodope  aside  and  tread 
upon  the  vivid  flame  of  a  burning  shade.  Rhodope  stood 
white  and  silent  watching  him,  and  as  Medcott  turned  back 
to  her,  evidently  with  some  inquiry,  the  look  in  her  eyes, 
which  Davenant  felt  rather  than  saw,  was  one  he  would 
have  given  all  he  possessed  not  to  have  Florence  see,  and 
which,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  would  willingly  have  dispensed 
with  seeing  himself.  Medcott  stooped  to  look  at  Rhodope's 
dress,  and  in  so  doing  saw  Mrs.  Needham  and  Davenant. 
The  latter  was  already  coming  towards  the  little  room — he 
had  seen  it  was  too  late  to  go  back. 

"  Oh,  I  think  I  will  not  go  in,"  said  Florence  in  a  loud, 
gay  tone  meant  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  others,  and  she 
turned  back  with  an  affectation  of  dismay. 

"  You  must,"  said  Davenant  with  an  intonation  that,  quiet 
as  it  was,  silenced  her,  and  she  went  on  with  him. 

"  Arson,"  declared  Tom  firmly,  as  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  smaller  room,  "  and  in  the  first  degree.  The  defend 
ant  was  discovered  secreting  burning  paper  in  the  hangings, 
while  his  accomplice  undoubtedly  supplied  the  matches.  " 

In  a  swift  glance  Medcott  perceived  what  impression 


234  WHITE  BIRCHES 

had  been  made,  but  before  he  had  time  to  speak  Florence 
walked  up  to  him,  her  head  thrown  back,  her  voice  defiant. 

She  ignored  Rhodope  entirely;  it  was  as  if  no  one  but 
Medcott  were  in  the  room. 

"My  candle  -  shades  are  not  sufficiently  guarded  for 
such  emotional  outbreaks,  Mr.  Medcott,"  and  she  laughed. 
"  They  should  be  protected  by  wire  netting — but  I  really 
hadn't  thought  them  within  arm's  length  before."  Her  tem 
per  was  rapidly  getting  the  command  of  the  situation — she 
hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  Medcott,  however,  did 
not  lose  his ;  he  was  as  sure  as  Davenant  that  it  was  very 
important  to  keep  it. 

"  Gratitude !"  he  demanded,  laughing.  "  I  refuse  to  have 
your  improvidence  usurp  the  place  of  my  prowess.  That 
burning  candle-shade  fell  upon  Miss  Trent's  gown,  which,  if 
I  mistake  not,  is  of  the  material  usually  recognized  as  di 
aphanous,  and  consequently  inflammable.  Had  it  not  been 
for  my  promptness — I  forbear  to  say  my  personal  bravery 
— what  might  not  have  happened  !" 

"We  saw  what  happened,"  said  Florence,  still  defiantly 
but  less  confidently.  Medcott's  carelessness,  the  apparent 
absence  of  any  emotion  on  his  part — above  all,  Medcott 
himself,  the  man  for  whom  her  feeling  was  so  complex  and 
so  strong — had  subdued  her  into  some  self-control. 

"  And  we  see — it  is  bad  enough  as  it  is !"  said  Dave 
nant  solemnly.  He  had  been  making  investigations.  "One 
candle-shade,  undoubtedly  expensive,  done  for  entirely ;  one 
spot  burned  on  the  carpet,  but  which  can  be  judiciously 
covered  by  yonder  small  table,  now  acting  merely  as  a  pit 
fall;  one  hole  in  Miss  Trent's  gown,  small  and  easily  con 
cealed  by  a — a  gather." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?"  said  Florence,  with  exasperating  in- 
<credulity. 

"And  I  hope  not  Miss  Trent's  arm  permanently  dislo- 


WHITE  BIRCHES  235 

cated,"  said  Medcott,  speaking  for  the  first  time  to  her.  "  I 
did  not  stop  to  think  that  I  might  hurt  you." 

"  He  did  not  stop  to  think,"  said  Florence  under  her 
breath. 

"  I  am  not  hurt,"  said  Rhodope  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  might 
have  been  but  for  you — this  second  time." 

"  You  would  have  been  a  crisp,"  said  Davenant  with  ter 
rible  lightness.  He  felt  something  must  be  done  to  get 
Rhodope  away.  He  wondered  when  the  first  time  had 
been,  but  with  noble  self-abnegation  he  did  not  wish  his 
curiosity  gratified  at  the  expense  of  gratifying  Mrs.  Need- 
ham's  too.  "  Having  thanked  your  deliverer,  you  will  now 
come  with  me  where  the  uneventful  gas-lights  are  predomi 
nant,  and  candle-shades  are  not." 

The  whole  episode  had  been  barely  five  minutes  long. 

Rhodope  and  Davenant  found  the  rooms  still  full ;  peo 
ple  were  not  thinking  of  going  home. 

"How  high-minded  of  him  to  take  her  away !"  said  Flor 
ence,  her  voice  vibrating  harshly,  as  she  stood  where  Rhod 
ope  had  stood  just  before,  facing  Medcott. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"  Wormwood  !    Wormwood  !" 

"Though  you  fret  me  you  cannot  play  upon  me." 

THERE  was  the  noise  of  voices  raised  in  sudden,  sharp 
contention,  of  quick  words  of  entreaty,  wild,  untrained, 
pleading,  in  a  woman's  tones ;  the  rough,  brutal  reply  of  a 
man  ;  the  dull,  yet  startling,  sound  of  what  might  be  a  blow ; 
detached,  violent  syllables,  some  of  which  were  curses; 
"  For  God's  sake,  Bill !"  in  passionate  outcry ;  the  un 
licensed,  uncontrolled  savagery  of  speech,  and  perhaps 
action,  which  comes  with  such  terribly  strange,  palpitating 
force  to  ears  unused  to  its  evidences;  all  this  came  up 
from  the  street  below,  through  Rhodope's  open  window, 
waking  her  from  a  broken  sleep  into  horrified  attention.  A 
distant  church-clock  struck  three — the  slow,  heavy  step  of 
a  policeman  turned  down  a  neighboring  street ;  the  voices 
ceased,  and  it  was  still,  save  for  the  approaching  signal  of 
municipal  watchfulness.  Rhodope  sprang  up  and  went 
swiftly  in  the  darkness  to  the  window,  and,  drawing  aside 
the  curtain,  looked  out.  The  street  was  empty  to  her  eyes, 
though  what  the  black  shadows  might  conceal  she  knew 
not.  The  block  of  houses  opposite  rose  tall  and  dark, 
save  that,  here  and  there,  a  light,  probably  that  of  a  sick 
room,  gleamed  behind  the  hangings.  The  more  distant 
towers  and  steeples  were  massed  against  the  sky  and  its 
already  paling  stars.  All  was  stately,  orderly,  civilized. 
She  felt  as  if  a  brief  whirlwind  had  swept  through  the 
street  and  left  no  disastrous  trace,  as  she  went  back,  shiv- 


WHITE  BIRCHES  237 

ering  a  little,  with  apprehension  as  much  as  with  cold,  to 
sleep  until  daylight.  But  sleep  did  not  come  immediate 
ly.  The  commonplace  incident  had  served  to  emphasize 
the  mood  into  which  she  had  fallen.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
Was  there  a  fellow-creature  out  there  in  distress  or  terror 
which  that  slow,  heavily -treading  guardian  would  know 
nothing  of  ?  These  things,  as  well  as  others,  happen  in  the 
world  and  in  a  world  quite  as  real  as  that  of  brilliant  recep 
tion-rooms  and  well-bred,  soft-speaking  guests.  This  truth, 
which  appalls  the  stoutest  hearts,  oppressed  Rhodope  in 
those  early  morning  hours  when  the  night  itself  has  grown 
weary  waiting  for  the  day. 

It  was  due  in  part  to  the  reaction  of  the  evening  before. 
She  knew,  with  the  clear-sightedness  with  which  her  entire 
trustfulness  endowed  her,  that  the  moments  before  that  one 
in  which  Medcott  had  snatched  her  out  of  the  way  of  the 
flame  had  been  moments  of  as  nearly  utter  sincerity  as 
souls  are  vouchsafed  in  one  another's  presence.  She  felt 
it  now  as  clearly  as  she  had  then,  that  underneath  the  some 
times  light,  sometimes  serious  words  that  they  had  said  to 
one  another,  there  had  been  a  current  of  strong  feeling  in 
which  they  had  understood  each  other,  independently  of 
speech.  When  she  had  rested  an  instant  in  his  arms  she 
had  been  as  sure  of  his  love  as  she  had  been  of  her  own. 
It  was  a  moment  which  she  could  never  put  away  from  her 
again — and  how  lightly  he  had  put  it  away !  To  Rhodope, 
with  her  intensity  and  directness  of  feeling,  the  scene  which 
followed  had  been  jarring  in  the  extreme.  She  had  been 
stirred  to  the  soul,  and  so  she  was  sure  had  he,  yet  he  had 
met  jest  with  jest,  had  faced  an  angry  woman  with  an  as 
surance  equal  to,  though  calmer,  than  her  own,  and  had 
apologized  to  her — to  her ! — for  grasping  her  roughly — that 
was  all.  To  her  exacting  perceptions  it  had  been  so  mis 
erably  inadequate.  Did  it  need  only  the  presence  of  Flor- 


238  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ence  Needham  to  destroy  the  simplicity  of  her  relations 
with  Medcott  ?  Rhodope  was  not  jealous  of  Florence  ;  she 
would  have  felt  it  degrading  and  disloyal ;  but  she  had 
learned  the  larger  value  <5f  much  that  had  once  seemed  to 
her  of  slight  importance.  She  saw  her  deficiencies  by  the 
side  of  Florence's  completeness;  the  perfection  of  her 
dress,  the  luxury  of  her  environment  gave  Mrs.  Needham, 
she  perceived,  something  that  she  lacked.  The  picture  of 
her  first  view  of  Florence  flashed  before  her  eyes  with  a 
certain  insistence — her  charming  blonde  head  beside  Med- 
cott's  in  the  farm-house  window.  Did  her  approach  bring 
suddenly  to  bear  upon  him  all  the  tradition,  the  associa 
tion,  the  necessities  of  his  life,  outside  of  which  seemed  to 
be  Rhodope's  place  ?  Had  she  a  power  in  what  she  repre 
sented,  to  close  his  lips  and  harden  his  heart  ? 

Florence,  Rhodope,  and  Needham  were  together  at  the 
late  breakfast — a  not  entirely  normal  occurrence. 

Breakfast  is  perhaps  as  great  a  strain  as  civilized  peo 
ple  are  subjected  to  with  any  frequency.  There  is  that 
subdued  air  of  being  under  the  sway  of  duty,  not  inclina 
tion,  about  it  all.  The  probabilities  are  that  we  did  not 
wish  to  get  up  in  the  first  place,  and  the  necessary  grip  on 
the  natural  man  has  not  had  time  to  relax.  It  is  only  the 
most  satisfactorily  constituted  organizations  that  welcome 
the  idea  of  food  for  its  own  sake,  and  a  decent  amount  of 
conversation  is  an  unnatural  drain  upon  the  intellectual 
forces  which  refuse  to  be  marshalled  until  later  in  the  day. 
Any  determined  cheerfulness  on  the  part  of  an  individual 
is  regarded  as  arrant  Pharisaism,  and  put  down  to  his  or 
her  account  accordingly.  Now  and  then  a  phenomenon 
like  Thoreau  turns  up  to  preach  early  morning,  but  most  of 
us  look  upon  it,  as  the  worldly  look  upon  heaven,  as  un 
doubtedly  all  that  it  is  represented  to  be,  and  endlessly  re 
freshing,  but  something  that  we  prefer  to  leave  unseen  until 


WHITE    BIRCHES  239 

we  have  to  depart  from  all  that  we  hold  most  dear — and 
take  an  early  train.  To  the  actual  incapacities  of  the 
breakfast-hour  were  added  this  morning  some  special  dis 
advantages.  Needham  was  more  out  of  temper  than  usual, 
owing  to  the  gayety  of  the  evening  before.  Florence's 
nerves  were  on  edge — the  result  of  a  variety  of  causes,  and 
Rhodope's  oppressive  visions  had  not  been  altogether 
banished  by  the  sunlight.  Moreover,  the  efforts  of  the 
servants  had  not  yet  entirely  reinstated  the  house  in  its 
usual  atrnosphere  of  order  and  well-being. 

"  Len  Wright  has  shot  himself,"  said  Needham  suddenly, 
laying  down  his  paper.  Florence  looked  up  from  the  note 
of  invitation  she  was  reading. 

"  Those  Wrights  are  always  committing  suicide,"  she  ob 
served.  "  Was  it  his  brother  or  his  cousin  last  ?  And 
then  there  was  his  uncle." 

Rhodope  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  shocked 
eyes. 

"  Is  it  some  one  you  know  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Dined  with  him  night  before  last  at  the  club,"  replied 
Needham  briefly,  as  he  rose  and  walked  to  the  window, 
where  he  stood  looking  out,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Why,  you  saw  him,  Rhodope,"  said  Florence.  "  He 
was  at  that  musicale  Wednesday — a  tall,  good-looking  fel 
low  who  was  talking  most  of  the  time  with  Helena  Screed." 
She  was  quite  interested  in  helping  Rhodope  to  identify  him. 

"  Yes— I  remember.     Is— is  he  dead  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  killed  instantly,"  said  Charlie  from  the 
window. 

It  seemed  to  Rhodope  a  horrible  thing,  too  horrible  a 
thing  to  dwell  on. 

"What  was  the  matter?"  asked  Florence.  "What  did 
he  do  it  for  ?" 

"  Financial  embarrassment." 


240  WHITE    BIRCHES 

Florence  picked  up  the  paper. 

"  Oh,  yes — couldn't  pay  his  debts — books  found  wrong ;" 
she  glanced  over  the  notice.  "Well,  I  suppose  it  was  the 
best  thing  he  could  do.  The  Wrights'  position  won't  be  so 
much  injured  as  if  he'd  gone  to  prison  or  anything,"  and 
she  tossed  the  paper  carelessly  aside.  Needham  did  not 
answer.  Florence  tore  open  another  note. 

"  How  nice !"  she  exclaimed  an  instant  later.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed  with  pleasure.  The  constraint  which 
had  marked  her  manner  each  time  she  had  spoken  to 
Rhodope  that  morning  had  momentarily  vanished. 

"  Mrs.  Rimmon  has  invited  us  to  dinner,"  she  announced 
in  a  tone  which  almost  crossed  the  line  that  separates  satis 
faction  from  triumph — "  to  dinner,  Charlie,  to  meet  those 
English  people.  She  has  never  asked  us  to  dinner  before," 
she  added,  that  he  might  not  miss  the  full  significance  of 
the  fact. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  the  cook  could  get  us  something  at 
home  if  she  hadn't  asked  us  this  time,"  said  Charlie  disa 
greeably,  without  turning  around. 

"  You  can  be  as  rude  as  you  like  now,"  returned  Florence, 
with  a  contempt  which  did  not,  however,  shadow  the  illumi 
nation  of  her  spirit,  "  as  long  as  you  are  civil  then." 

She  turned  to  Rhodope  with  a  return  of  her  former  cool 
ness.  "  Mrs.  Rimmon  says  nothing  about  you,"  she  said. 
"  She  does  not  know  you  are  here,  perhaps." 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  never  mind,"  said  Rhodope  eagerly, 
"  I  couldn't  bear  to  go — it  would  give  me  much  greater 
pleasure  to  be  at  home."  She  rose  and  pushed  back  her 
chair.  Life,  death — they  were  nothing  to  these  people. 
What  was  it  to  them  that  the  man  who  had  been  next  to 
them  had  shot  himself  in  despair — so  long  as  there  were 
dinners  to  go  to.  Naturally  enough,  she  underestimated 
the  force  of  familiarity. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  241 

"It  is  some  days  off,"  said  Florence  coldly.  "We  can 
make  other  plans  for  you." 

Rhodope  had  seated  herself  by  the  fire.  She  cared  more 
to  be  by  a  fire  here  than  she  had  in  the  cooler  climate  of 
her  home.  It  remained  warm  and  friendly,  and  so  appealed 
to  her. 

"  I  am  afraid  something  terrible  happened  here  last 
night,"  she  said  slowly. 

"  What  ?  For  Heaven's  sake  !"  demanded  Florence,  turn 
ing  a  little  pale,  "  was  anything  the  matter  in  the  supper- 
room  ? — I  didn't  go  into  it  once."  Even  Charlie  turned  his 
head  to  listen. 

"  No,  oh  no,  not  in  the  house,  "  said  Rhodope,  "  but 
outside.  I  heard  a  man's  voice  and  a  woman's.  I  was  al 
most  afraid." 

"  When  do  you  mean  ?"  Florence  had  a  dreadful  vision 
of  the  Adells  not  being  able  to  get  their  carriage,  and  their 
consequent  reflections  on  her  bad  management. 

"  Early  this  morning — very  soon  after  I  fell  asleep,"  said 
Rhodope. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Mrs.  Needham,  relieved.  "A  street 
row,"  and  she  poured  more  cream  into  her  coffee.  "  We 
are  always  hearing  them  here — it's  a  perfect  disgrace,  too  ! 
Why  can't  they  confine  their  disturbances  to  their  own 
neighborhood  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Rhodope,  "  a  street  row,  I  suppose."  She 
began  to  perceive  its  trifling  position  in  the  drama  of  life. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  dine  out,  Miss  Rhodope  ?"  asked 
Needham,  facing  around  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  have  not  done  it  often,"  replied  Rhodope  thought 
fully.  "  I  have  attended  but  one  very  formal  dinner,  I 
think." 

"  The  Mevans,  you  know,"  interpolated  Florence  ;  "  only 
the  best  people  were  there." 
16 


242  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"I  did  not  enjoy  that,"  went  on  Rhodope  frankly;  "they 
talked  altogether  about  themselves.  If  I  had  known  them 
I  might  have  been  interested  too,"  she  added,  with  her 
usual  justice. 

"  I'll  lay  you  five  to  one  you  wouldn't,"  Needham  laughed 
scornfully. 

"  It  is  very  singular  you  did  not  enjoy  it,"  said  Florence 
with  measured  disapproval.  "  It  was  given  in  part  for  you, 
and  Mrs.  Mevans  was  very  kind  to  ask  us." 

"  She  was  very  kind,"  admitted  Rhodope  simply;  "  I  think 
perhaps  it  was  only  that  she  did  not  know  how  to  make 
people  enjoy  each  other." 

"  Not  know  how — Mrs.  Rodman  Mevans."  Mrs.  Need- 
ham's  tone  was  indescribable. 

"  No."  Rhodope  felt  the  unfriendliness  of  her  hostess, 
but  she  was  answering  Charlie,  and  she  regarded  him  seri 
ously  while  she  explained.  "  You  see,  she  did  not  tell  me 
who  anybody  was,  and  I  knew  but  one  person,  and  when  I 
addressed  myself  to  her,  saying  that  I  had  seen  her  at  Miss 
Screed's  luncheon,  she  said,  *  Indeed,  you  have  a  good 
memory,'  and  that  was  all." 

"  It  was  a  beastly  shame,"  broke  out  Charlie  indignantly. 
"  She  ought  to  have  her  ears  boxed." 

"  Charlie  P  said  Florence,  "  it  was  Miss  Arne  !" 

"  Then  she  ought  to  have  known  better !"  was  the  retort. 
"  She  considers  herself  well-bred,  I  believe.  Where  was  I 
at  this  dinner  that  I  couldn't  help  you  out  ?" 

"  It  was  a  woman's  dinner — you  weren't  asked,"  answered 
Florence. 

"  A  woman's  dinner !"  repeated  Charlie,  as  though  he  had 
said  "  Fire  and  water." 

Rhodope  had  not  meant  to  be  critical,  only  to  explain, 
but  Needham's  encouragement  drew  her  out.  She  laughed 
a  little  now. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  243 

"  But  one  lady  spoke  to  me  at  the  table,"  she  said,  "  and 
she  asked  me,  *  Who  is  your  favorite  photographer  ?'  and  I 
could  not  answer." 

Charlie  burst  out  laughing.  "Why  didn't  you  ask  her 
what  was  her  favorite  trout-fly,"  he  asked,  "  and  she  could 
not  have  answered  you." 

Florence  rose  and  left  Charlie  and  Rhodope  to  their 
flash  of  ill-regulated  gayety.  Such  criticism  was  to  her  on 
the  level  of  the  profane  jokes  in  the  lower  order  of  comic 
papers.  Perhaps  it  was  to  her  disapproving  presence  that 
the  flash  was  due,  for,  after  she  left,  the  gloom  of  the  winter 
morning  fell  again  upon  the  other  two.  Needham  went 
back  to  his  absent-minded  gaze  out  of  the  window;  then, 
conscious  of  his  want  of  civility,  fidgeted  about  the  room, 
beginning  a  sentence  or  two  which  lost  themselves  in  the 
vagueness  lying  in  wait  for  absent-minded  people,  and 
finally  said  good-by,  and  went  out  of  the  house.  Rhod 
ope  sat  silently  before  the  fire  while  the  servant  removed 
the  breakfast  things  and  withdrew.  A  light  snow  was  be 
ginning  to  fall — the  houses  opposite  looked  oppressively 
high — the  rumble  of  a  crowded  thoroughfare  was  distantly 
in  her  ears — the  shrill  whistle  of  the  postman  sounded  a  few 
doors  off.  Now  and  then  she  caught  glimpses  through  the 
window  of  passing  figures,  but  she  did  not  watch  them — 
she  had  never  seen  one  of  them  before  in  her  life — she 
should  never  see  one  of  them  again.  For  the  first  time  she 
realized  that  she  was  wretchedly  homesick. 

In  another  room  of  the  house  sat  Florence  Needham. 
She  had  heard  her  husband  go,  and  she  knew  that 
Rhodope  was  alone,  but  she  had  no  thought  of  joining  her ; 
she  had  been  there  long  enough  to  know  the  ways  of  the 
house  ;  she  could  not  be  running  after  her  all  the  time.  If 
there  were  reasons  why  she  might  think  any  neglect  this 
morning  intentional — she  did  not  care — she  was  not  un- 


244  WHITE    BIRCHES 

willing  to  have  her  think  so.  Florence  was  in  her  worst 
mood.  A  variety  of  causes  which  would  have  made  quite 
a  respectable  showing  by  themselves  were  all  merged  in 
that  one  great  cause,  the  incident  of  the  previous  evening 
and  its  result.  To  be  sure,  these  lesser  causes  had  each 
fheir  detrimental  and  positive  effect,  and  she  dwelt  on  them 
that  she  might  not  lose  herself  in  the  anger  that  throbbed 
in  her  veins  when  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  other.  In 
the  first  place,  Rhodope  had  not  been  a  remarkable  success ; 
the  fact  that  she  was  not  included  in  this  invitation  of  Mrs. 
Rimmon  was  an  evidence  of  it.  Florence  owed  the  satis 
faction  of  the  day  to  her  own  diplomatic  charms  and  not 
in  the  least  to  Rhodope,  who  had  not  created  the  ripple  that 
she  had  thought  possible ;  she  had  been  noticed  by  some 
people,  of  course,  and  she  was  thought  beautiful,  but  Flor 
ence  Needham  was  just  where  she  would  have  been  without 
her.  She  needed  to  cast  no  such  bait  for  discriminating 
favor  anyway — had  not  Mrs.  Rimmon  asked  her  to  dinner  ? 
To  be  sure,'there  was  Austin  Medcott.  Instead  of  ignoring 
her  almost  entirely,  he  had  dropped  into  the  position  of  an 
habitue  of  her  house.  Yes,  there  was  Austin  Medcott! 
Florence  sat  at  the  library  table,  upon  which  there  still 
stood  a  bowl  of  magnificent  roses.  She  snatched  a  handful 
of  them  and  pulled  them  rapidly  to  pieces,  scattering  the 
bruised  petals  over  her  dress  and  about  her  feet;  then 
with  a  violent  gesture  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  shook  herself 
free  from  them,  and  paced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room. 
She  would  have  liked  to  break  china,  to  have  smashed 
ornaments.  The  shallow,  violent  nature  of  the  woman 
longed  for  an  outbreak — it  was  only  her  conventionality 
that  held  her  in  any  sort  of  check.  Finally  she  paused 
at  the  door  of  the  smaller  room — just  where  she  had  stood 
and  faced  Medcott  last  night. 

"You   fancied  yourself  still  at  the  farm-house  of  one 


WHITE    BIRCHES  245 

Israel  Clock,  perhaps,"  she  had  said,  the  angry  light  in  her 
eyes ;  "  or  up  at  Uncle  Denver's — or  by  the  cascade — or  at 
the  stile  ?"  Her  voice  grew  more  contemptuous  with  each 
suggestion.  "You  forget  that  something  besides  the  eti 
quette  of  the  valley  is  in  force  here.  You  forget — "  She 
stopped  because  she  did  not  dare  go  on.  There  was  an  ex 
pression  of  answering  contempt  in  his  eyes  which  warned 
her — the  liking  of  this  man  was  so  much  to  her !  Medcott 
watched  Rhodope  disappear  with  Davenant. 

"I  do  not  forget  that  I  am  in  Mrs.  Needham's  house," 
he  said,  with  entire  civility,  paused  a  moment,  and  went  on 
smiling — "  and  consequently  subject  to  her  interpretation  of 
etiquette.  Apparently  I  have  transgressed.  If  I  have  kept 
Miss  Trent  too  long  from  your  other  guests — at  least  Dave 
nant  has  remedied  my  mistake  for  me." 

"  I  fancy  she  has  not  been  generally  missed,"  said  Flor 
ence  with  an  angry  shrug. 

"  Then  my  present  guilt  is  the  greater — for  I  am  detain 
ing  you." 

The  determined  lightness  of  his  tone,  the  unmeaning  flat 
tery  which  he  offered  her,  as  he  would  a  child  sweetmeats, 
exasperated  her. 

"  You  have  been  making  love  to  that  girl,"  she  said  sud 
denly  and  sharply.  His  expression  changed  and  his  eyes 
grew  sterner  as  they  looked  straight  into  her  unreliable 
blue  ones. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mrs.  Needham,"  he  said  briefly.  "  I 
have  not  yet  had  the  opportunity." 

His  frankness  was  a  stab  to  her  vanity  and  through  that 
to  her  heart. 

"  It  looked  very  much  like  an — an  opportunity,"  she  said 
with  a  disagreeable  laugh. 

Medcott  had  not  Davenant's  coolness,  and  he  was  very 
angry,  but  not  only  his  strength  of  will,  but  the  scene  itself 


246  WHITE    BIRCHES 

helped  him  to  be  apparently  unmoved.  The  sound  of  the 
music  which  was  just  beginning  again,  the  hum  of  the  voices, 
the  brilliancy  and  sparkle,  instead  of  disturbing  or  bewilder 
ing  him  as  it  had  disturbed  and  bewildered  Rhodope,  held 
him  in  his  place  and  contributed  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
proper  key  of  conversation. 

"  Then  I  am  slow  at  recognizing  effects,"  he  answered 
carelessly ;  "  I  brought  Miss  Trent  her  supper  and  protected 
her  incidentally  from  a  burning  bit  of  paper,  but  neither 
occasion  seemed  to  me  a  favorable  one."  He  waited  a  mo 
ment — while  Florence  looked  up  at  him  with  her  hard,  in 
credulous  smile — not  in  doubt,  but  to  make  his  next  words 
more  unmistakable. 

"  But  allow  me  to  say,  Mrs.  Needham,  as  Miss  Trent  is 
at  present  in  your  charge,  that  I  shall  seek  an  opportunity 
to  tell  her  that  I  am  in  love  with  her  as  soon  as  may  be." 

Florence  turned  swiftly  away  in  a  rush  of  mingled  im 
pulses  that  forbade  present  speech.  If  Rhodope  had  been 
there  she  could  have  found  words  for  her ;  to  Medcott  she 
could  say  nothing.  The  kindled  insistence  of  his  usually 
somewhat  indifferent  manner,  the  suggestion  of  haughtiness 
which  indicated  his  resentment  of  her  impertinence  while  he 
yielded  to  it,  the  strength  and  distinction,  physical  and 
mental,  of  the  man,  made  his  attraction  for  her  the  more 
absolute. 

As  Florence  recalled  this  instant  of  the  interview,  she 
flung  aside  the  portiere  near  which  she  stood  with  a  violence 
which  rattled  sharply  all  its  many  rings,  the  sudden  sound 
of  which  was  like  an  angry  exclamation.  She  had  gone  a 
few  steps  away  from  him  under  the  stress  of  her  dismay. 
With  a  second  ill-considered  caprice  she  had  come  back  to 
his  side.  She  stood  close  to  him,  her  eyes  raised  with  a 
look  of  softness,  deeper  than  even  Davenant  was  allowed 
to  perceive  in  them,  her  round  cheek  almost  touching  his 


WHITE    BIRCHES  247 

arm,  the  exquisitely  dainty  tints  of  her  complexion  flushed 
by  the  momentary  excitement,  the  diamonds  gleaming  about 
her  white  throat. 

"  Why  don't  you  make  love  to  me  ?"  she  said,  in  tones  so 
low  that  her  voice  was  almost  sweet. 

Her  beauty  had  never  had  for  Medcott  even  the  fascina 
tion  that  Davenant  cynically  allowed  himself  to  perceive  in 
it.  In  those  early  days  at  the  Clock  farm-house,  before  he 
found  a  stronger  interest,  it  had  not  swayed  him  in  the 
least.  He  looked  down  at  her  smiling. 

"  I  am  not  of  that  stern  stuff,"  he  said ;  "  I  cannot  de 
clare  war  upon  so  many.  There  is  no  room  for  another 
aspirant.  Would  you  have  me  prove  it  in  bitterness  of 
soul?" 

The  banality  of  the  reply  accomplished  what  it  was  meant 
to  do.  She  drew  away  from  him,  and,  resuming  her  ordinary 
gayety,  she  said  a  few  words  of  laughing  retort  and  pre 
ceded  him  out  of  the  room. 

Medcott  knew  that  he  might  have  done  more  wisely  ac 
cording  to  the  children  of  unrighteousness.  If  he  had  de 
tained,  instead  of  following  her,  had  stayed  with  her  there 
in  the  half  seclusion  that  an  hour  before  had  been  so  grate 
ful,  and  had  said  some  of  the  things  she  wanted  to  hear 
him  say — it  would  not  have  been  a  great  matter  after  all, 
and  he  might  have  found  his  path  the  smoother  for  it. 
It  would  have  been  a  rational  and  becoming  proceeding, 
viewed  from  the  standpoint  he  was  accustomed  to  occupy. 
But  a  standpoint  is  not  Gibraltar — even  for  the  individual, 
and  his  had  suffered  modifications.  Unconsciously  a  sin 
gular  and  stern  simplicity  had  been  begotten  in  the  cool, 
silent  shadow  of  Mount  Marvel,  Mount  Innocence,  and 
Mount  Charity. 

Mrs.  Needham's  gayety,  however,  had  not  deceived  Dave 
nant  when  he  went  with  Medcott  to  bid  her  good-night. 


248  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Embers,"  he  remarked,  with  that  sententiousness  he 
liked  to  treat  himself  to,  as  he  caught  her  expression  as  she 
spoke  to  Medcott.  "  Large  embers.  The  biaze  is  over,  but 
there  must  have  been  a  pretty  one." 

He  even  went  so  far  as  to  make  an  entry  in  his  note 
book  after  he  reached  home.  "  Disturbed  vanity,"  he 
wrote.  "  Pre-empted  lover.  General  conflagration  begun 
by  lamp-shade.  Embers  not  so  extinct  as  to  be  incapable 
of  bearing  a  hand  at  reconstruction.  Mixed  metaphor,  but 
will  do  something  with  it  when  I  have  time." 

"  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  mess  Medcott  made  of  it,"  he 
mused  as  he  replaced  his  pencil.  "  He's  safe  to  have  ex 
perimented.  But  I  don't  know  as  he  could  have  helped 
it,"  he  admitted  pensively.  "  It  was  a  pretty  severe  situa 
tion  for — as  old  Denver  Trent  used  to  say — just  the  ordi 
nary  one-headed  man." 

Davenant  was  quite  right.  The  flame  had  barely  been 
kept  under.  This  morning  all  Florence's  cruel  resentment 
was  directed  towards  Rhodope.  Freed  from  the  elevating 
restrictions  of  self-control,  she  descended  to  the  essentially 
low  level  of  her  ordinary  aims,  impulses,  and  inclinations. 
It  indicates  with  critical  clearness  the  state  of  her  mind  to 
say  that  she  would  have  liked  to  have  turned  Rhodope  out 
of  the  house  and  then  to  have  slammed  the  door.  It  was 
while  she  yielded  to  this  access  of  irritation  that  she  re 
membered  that  a  day  or  two  earlier,  in  unacknowledged 
consequence  of  some  remarks  of  Davenant  and  Edwina 
Screed,  she  had  urged  Rhodope  to  remain  through  the 
month.  She  felt  choked  by  complications.  The  knob  of 
the  library  door  turned  and  she  faced  Rhodope. 

"  Well  ?"  she  said,  with  an  unfriendly  intonation  she  had 
not  hitherto  permitted  herself.  Rhodope  was  too  free  from 
self-consciousness,  too  physically  at  ease  to  appear  timid  ; 
but  tall,  straight,  and  beautiful  as  she  was,  as  she  caught 


WHITE    BIRCHES  249 

the  chill  of  Mrs.  Needham's  manner  she  felt  helpless  and 
alone.  It  recalled  the  day  of  the  picnic,  when  she  had  felt 
that  an  unmeasured  distance  separated  her  from  her  kin 
dred.  Her  voice  trembled  a  little  under  the  weight  of 
strangeness. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  out  to  walk,"  she  said.  "  The  snow 
has  stopped,  and  I  should  like  to  be  outside." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Needham,  indifferently. 

"  You  would  not  care  to  go  ?" 

"  I  ?     No,  I  never  walk  if  I  can  help  it." 

Rhodope  turned  to  leave  the  room.  Florence  came  to  a 
sudden  resolution. 

"  Rhodope."  The  perceptible  hostility  of  the  tone 
brought  the  tears  almost  to  Rhodope's  eyes,  but  they  did 
not  fall. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  coming  back  into  the  room.  As  she  did 
so  she  saw  the  scattered  rose-leaves.  They  suggested  the 
sudden  extinction  of  what  had  seemed  beautiful  and  vital 
the  night  before. 

"  Last  night  you  were  here  a  long  time  with  Medcott — 
Austin  Medcott." 

"Was  it  a  long  time?"  questioned  Rhodope  with  entire 
simplicity. 

"  Yes  ;  I  think  I  had  better  tell  you  that  he  is  a  man  who 
is  dangerous,  from  the  very  artistic  appreciation  that  makes 
him  so — so  delightful." 

"  He  is  delightful,"  she  said  gravely  again.  Her  calm 
acquiescence  was  rather  disconcerting  to  Florence's  arti 
ficial  temperament. 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  from  your  having  seen  so  much  of 
him  last  summer  and  all  that,  you  might  think  it  was  some 
thing — something  special.  He  admires  you — as  an  artist " 
— the  implied  flattery  did  not  fall  from  honeyed  lips — "  but 
he  is  a  man  who— who  goes  no  further."  Florence  was 


250  WHITE    BIRCHES 

finding  it  difficult  to  say  what  it  was  he  did  not  do,  with 
the  memory  of  his  last  night's  deficiency  so  keenly  present. 
"That  is,  he  talks  to  every  woman  as  he  talks  to  every 
other."  She  was  losing  the  justice  of  her  analysis  in  her 
wish  to  heal  her  own  vanity. 

"I  think  he  does  not  talk  to  me  as  he  talks  to  every 
other  woman,"  said  Rhodope,  with  the  same  somewhat  sad 
gravity.  Her  confidence  amazed  while  it  exasperated  her 
companion. 

"  I  did  not  think  matters  had  gone  so  far,"  she  exclaimed 
angrily.  "  I  see  my  warning  has  come  too  late !  If  you 
already  think  that  he  says  to  no  one  else  what  he  says  to 
you — why,  the  harm  is  already  done." 

"  I  think  you  are  not  just  to  him." 

"  Don't  flatter  yourself  that  you  are !"  Florence  inter 
rupted  angrily. 

"  And,"  concluded  the  other,  with  a  proud  little  inflection, 
"  I  do  not  think  you  are  just  to  me." 

Mrs.  Needham  could  not  realize  that  her  sense  of  the 
situation  was  the  finer  and  truer  one,  but  she  felt  the  im 
perturbable  sincerity  of  the  recognition  of  it,  and  her  irrita 
tion  increased. 

"Justice  is  not  what  either  of  you  want,"  she  retorted. 
"  You  had  better  go  for  your  walk  now,"  she  added,  with 
the  air  of  concluding  the  interview,  and  Rhodope  went 
slowly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"She  says  she  hears  there's  tricks  in  the  world." 

"  This  love  just  puts  his  hand  out  in  a  dream 
And  straight  outreaches  all  things." 

IT  was  about  noon,  and,  the  snow-storm  being  over,  the 
air  had  softened  into  one  of  those  freakish  days  of  late 
winter,  when  the  sun  shines  with  a  freedom  that  sets  the 
bondage  of  cold  at  defiance,  and  makes  us  feel  that  spring 
is  an  actual  presence  that  has  for  the  moment  drawn  nearer, 
and  the  flutter  of  whose  garments  is  almost  perceptible  as 
she  passes. 

As  Rhodope  walked  through  Madison  Square  her  eyes 
fell  upon  a  group  of  four — two  men  and  two  women.  They 
had  paused  at  one  of  the  benches,  and  were  showing  one 
another  tintypes.  They  had  so  evidently  come  from  the 
country  into  the  full  enjoyment  of  metropolitan  pleasures, 
that  it  was  impossible  not  to  look  upon  them  with  friendly 
eyes,  and  some  curiosity  to  see  the  tintypes.  There  was 
something  in  the  manner  of  all  of  them  that  suggested  that 
the  acquaintance  was  not  of  long  standing.  Instead  of  the 
calm  serenity  of  those  who  have  sat  up  with  each  other  for 
successive  evenings,  there  was  a  conscious,  blushing,  timid 
audacity  in  their  giggles,  exclamations,  and  unevasive  flat 
tery  that  indicated  something  innocently  irregular  in  the 
proceedings.  A  careful  observer  would  have  surmised  that 
the  two  men  had  been  having  their  pictures  taken,  when 
the  girls  came  in,  and  that  there  had  been  mirth  in  conse- 


252  WHITE    BIRCHES 

quence,  which  had  resulted  in  this  wayside  meeting  for 
mutual  confidences.  It  was  altogether  an  innocent,  pleas 
ing  spectacle,  not  unedifying  to  the  jaded  observer.  Rhod- 
ope  felt  for  them  a  throb  of  sympathy  as  she  drew  near 
them  on  her  way  across  the  square.  It  was  with  such 
simple  folk  as  this  that  she  was  happiest.  One  of  the  men 
might  have  been  Tom  Furwin  himself.  She  remembered 
that  he  had  had  a  tintype  taken,  and  the  subsequent  satis 
faction  on  higher  than  artistic  grounds  of  his  immediate 
circle.  She  had  come  out  this  morning  to  fling  off  this 
load  of  homesickness  that  had  oppressed  her,  and  here  it 
faced  her  again  on  the  city  square.  Under  its  influence  she 
put  aside  the  suggestions  of  a  deeper,  more  exacting,  more 
intoxicating  happiness ;  yes,  it  was  with  people  like  these, 
in  their  own  homes,  that  she  belonged,  not  here  in  this 
brilliant,  noisy,  confusing,  heartless  city,  where  people  had 
no  time  to  wonder  whether  or  not  women  were  cruelly  in- 
treated,  or  what  had  led  their  friends  to  suicide,  and  where 
one's  deepest  feelings  were  tossed  aside  with  a  smile  that 
befitted  one's  most  trivial.  It  was  characteristic  of  Rhod- 
ope  that  nothing  that  Florence  had  said,  nor  her  own  dis 
satisfaction  with  Medcott,  had  led  her  to  doubt  the  genuine 
ness  of  the  feeling  he  had  had  for  her  during  those  mo 
ments  when  they  had  understood  one  another.  The  tin 
types  were  replaced,  and  the  four  people  strolled  up  one  of 
the  wide  park  walks  with  the  shrinking  bravado  of  couples 
promenading  country  lanes,  heedless  of  mocking,  cynical, 
indifferent,  busy  New  York. 

With  a  certain  irresolution,  Rhodope  turned  again  up 
town.  Suddenly  she  felt  the  hopelessness  of  going  farther 
after  light-heartedness.  It  was  better  to  be  in  the  house, 
even  with  Florence  Needham,  away  from  other  observation, 
than  here  where  there  was  subtle  mockery  in  the  very  sun 
and  air,  and  where  a  little,  harmless  idyl,  like  that  she  had 


WHITE    BIRCHES  253 

just  witnessed,  was  as  distinctly  out  of  place  as  though  it 
had  been  a  bit  of  real  Arcadia.  She  recalled  the  instant 
that  her  head  had  rested  on  Medcott's  shoulder,  with  sudden 
half-frightened  but  unashamed  consciousness,  and  caught 
again  the  revelation  that  that  moment  held — for  them  both, 
she  had  thought — nay,  she  was  sure — for  them  both.  It 
was  only  that  for  him  it  was  quickly  hidden  again  by  the 
close-pressing  illusions  of  outside  things ;  for  her,  it  would 
remain  forever  unobscured. 

"Good- morning,  Miss  Trent,"  said  a  man  behind  her. 
"  This  is  better  luck  than  I  dared  to  hope  for."  For  an 
instant  his  voice  carried  her  back  to  the  brief  confidence  of 
that  moment,  and  then  she  met  his  glance  with  a  gravity 
which  startled  him.  His  thoughts  had  been  dwelling  on 
that  last  interview,  but  without  her  perplexity  and  misgiv 
ings.  They  walked  on  through  the  square  and  turned  up 
Fifth  Avenue.  The  day  had  become  fairly  brilliant.  The 
city  had  already  assumed  that  gala  air  which  it  lays  aside 
only  under  protest,  now  and  then,  and  which  it  is  always 
ready  to  take  up  again  nt  a  moment's  notice. 

"  I  am  coming  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I  may,"  said  Med- 
cott.  "  When  shall  it  be  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Rhodope,  her  eyes  straight 
before  her  as  she  walked  swiftly,  yet  without  hurrying,  up 
the  street.  "  I  do  not  know,  for  I  do  not  judge  of  things 
right.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  when  you  shall  come." 

There  was  a  sense  of  distance  conveyed  by  her  tone. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  say  what  I  shall  do  always,"  broke  out 
Medcott,  "  always,  if  you  will." 

The  color  surged  into  Rhodope's  cheeks,  and  she  did  not 
meet  his  eyes. 

"  You  all  have  a  way  of  speaking  here,"  she  answered 
gently. 

"  But  you  do  not  believe  that  it  is  only  a  way  of  speak- 


254  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ing,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  Rhodope,  you  know  what  I  am 
coming  to  tell  you!  You  know  what  was  so  near  my  lips 
last  night—" 

"  Last  night  ?"  she  took  the  sentence  up.  She  made  no 
pretence  of  not  understanding,  but  the  joy,  the  deep,  throb 
bing  emotion  she  had  felt  the  night  before  had  gone.  She 
seemed  conscious  only  of  a  sort  of  impatient  sadness. 
"  Yes,  I  know — perhaps.  But  it  was  not  said,  and  it  was 
better  that  it  was  not."  Now  she  turned  and  met  his  pro 
testing  eyes. 

"  It  shall  be  said,"  he  interrupted  briefly,  "  even  if  it  is  in 
a  city  street." 

"  It  is  so  easy  for  you  to  say  another  thing,"  she  went  on. 
"  It  is  not  such  a  great  matter." 

Medcott's  intuition  seized  the  impression  that  was  in  her 
mind. 

"  Do  you  say  that  because  I  found  it  possible  to  say 
something  else  last  night  ?"  he  demanded.  "  Because  I 
thought  the  feeling  I  had  for  you  was  too  sacred  a  thing 
to  be  then  revealed  or  lightly  acknowledged  ?" 

"It  is  always  easy,"  she  repeated,  "  to  say  something  that 
conceals.  Why  is  it  not  easy  to  say  what  is — always — any 
time  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  ?" 

He  knew  her  utter  unreasonableness,  and  yet  its  serious 
ness  disconcerted  him,  as  it  had  done  before.  This  sudden 
failure  of  a  common  ground  in  the  very  midst  of  what 
seemed  extraordinary  mutual  understanding  had  been  to 
him  a  part  of  Rhodope's  exquisite  and  unusual  charm.  Be 
fore  he  made  answer  she  went  on: 

"There  is  some  reason  for  it  all,  but  I  have  not  found 
it,"  she  said  with  a  somewhat  pathetic  earnestness.  "  Mr. 
Davenant  said  once,  in  the  higher  civilization  it  is  not  half 
the  matter  what  one  does  as  what  one  says."  Medcott 
almost  laughed  in  the  midst  of  his  perplexity  to  hear  her 


WHITE    BIRCHES  255 

quote  one  of  Tom's  cynical  maxims  as  if  it  were  a  simple 
copy-book  rule  of  good  conduct,  suitable  for  the  instruction 
of  the  young  of  both  sexes. 

"  But  is  it " — she  paused  a  moment — "  is  it  of  so  much 
importance  what  one  says  ?  Does  one  even  say  what  one 
feels  ?"  There  was  something  a  little  affecting  in  her  evi' 
dent  wish  to  adapt  her  comprehension  to  new  codes,  that 
she  might  judge  fairly,  even  while  she  could  never  wish  to 
make  them  her  own.  Medcott  could  not  know  that  her 
confusion  was  the  result  of  increasing  bewilderment,  her 
disappointment  in  him,  and  her  wish  to  defend  him  even 
to  herself.  He  felt  constrained  to  answer  her  according  to 
her  own  fashion. 

"  It  is  of  every  importance,"  he  said  gently,  but  with  a 
strong  feeling  perceptible  through  his  words  that  Rhodope 
could  not  but  be  conscious  of,  "what  one  says  to  some 
people  at  all  times.  I  told  you  once  no  one  would  ever 
tell  you  anything  but  truth.  No  word,  no  look,  no  slight 
est  action  of  mine  towards  you  has  been  meant  to  convey 
anything  but  truth.  But  I  have  not  told  you  half  of  it,  that 
is  all.  Half-truths  we  know  are  dangerous.  What  I  feel 
for  you  has  a  length,  a  breadth,  a  depth  that  you  must  learn 
to  know,  for  I  cannot  tell  it  to  you."  He  paused.  Rhodope 
was  swayed  and  thrilled,  but  the  conflicting  currents  of  the 
night's  and  morning's  experience  had  tried  her  courage. 
Unconsciously  she  had  been  subjected  of  late  to  a  nervous 
strain  of  which  she  did  not  know  the  meaning  or  the  effect. 
She  dared  not  let  herself  trust  to  what  she  would  once  have 
accepted  as  utterly  trustworthy. 

"  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  believe  you,"  she  said,  with  a  sin 
cerity  that  she  did  not  mean  to  be  somewhat  cruel.  "  It  is 
that  I  do  not  think  you  understand.  I  think  that  what  I 
have  grown  up  to  believe  great,  deep,  sad,  and  terrible  is 
not  that  to  you  who  live  where  there  are  so  many  people. 


256  WHITE    BIRCHES 

I  have  said  before,  I  do  not  understand  your  language 
sometimes.     That  is  what  makes  it  hard  for  you  and  me." 

Medcott  felt  with  sudden  heaviness  that  she  was  saying 
in  her  own  way  what  he  had  said  to  Davenant,  and  often  to 
himself.  The  evident  wavering  of  her  faith  in  him  hurt 
him  deeply ;  he  saw  that  what  had  been  his  natural  wish  to 
spare  her  the  evening  before  had  seemed  to  her  simplicity 
almost  a  denial.  And  he  knew  that  she  was  unjust  to  him  ; 
he  knew  that  his  subsequent  interview  with  Florence  had 
been  a  test  and  a  witness  of  his  truth  to  her  which  she 
could  never  understand.  But  the  overbearing,  stormy  flood 
of  passionate  love  refuses  to  be  long  held  within  barriers  of 
abstractions  and  misgivings,  or  veiled  in  the  mists  of  mis 
understanding. 

"  Rhodope,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I  love  you.  I  love  your 
eyes,  your  heart,  your  doubts,  your  distrusts,  and  the  sound 
of  your  voice !  I  love  the  way  you  move  and  speak !  I 
love  you  for  those  things  in  which  you  are  like  others  and 
in  which  you  differ  from  them !  You  may  judge  me  and 
condemn  me,  and  weigh  me  and  find  me  wanting,  but  you 
shall  believe  me.  I  love  you !" 

It  was  a  strange  place  for  such  a  confession.  To  have 
walked  with  this  woman  in  the  sweet  silences  of  forest,  field, 
and  country  roads,  to  have  watched  with  her  the  moon  rise 
and  listened  with  her  to  the  song  of  the  wood-thrush,  and 
then  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her  in  the  dimmed  brightness 
of  a  winter  noon  on  a  city  street,  where  they  met  and  passed 
strangers,  and  now  and  then  acquaintances,  equally  observ 
ing  and  indifferent,  was  an  incongruity  Medcott  was  one 
of  the  first  of  men  to  be  conscious  of.  But  he  had  not 
willed  it  so  and  it  had  come,  and  even  his  artistic  tempera 
ment  was  in  abeyance.  To  be  sure,  they  were  now  in  a 
quieter  part  of  the  avenue,  but  the  rush  of  carriages  and 
the  evidences  of  crowded,  hurrying,  swift,  and  audacious 


WHITE    BIRCHES  257 

life  made  it  hard  for  the  individual  to  realize  that  it  was 
all,  after  all,  but  made  up  of  individuals  and  individual 
hopes  and  fears. 

Rhodope  did  not  answer.  She  found  herself  in  the  midst 
of  something  that  dismayed  and  inspired  her.  It  was  as  if 
she  had  stepped  from  a  dusky  night  into  the  brilliant  light 
of  many  lamps,  and  was  half  blinded  by  the  illumination. 
They  were  almost  at  the  corner  of  the  street  where  the 
Needhams  lived.  She  longed  to  be  safely  there,  but  she 
felt  that,  after  all,  here  was  protection  ;  but,  as  the  moments 
of  "  uncertain  glory  "  passed,  she  was  again  perplexed,  buf 
feted,  and  alone.  She  turned  to  Medcott,  and  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was 
thoroughly  unnerved. 

"  I  cannot  forget  it,"  she  said.  "  No,  I  can  never  forget 
it.  But  it  is  not  like  anything  I  have  ever  known.  I  want 
to  be  alone  and  to  think.  Oh !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
quick  sigh  of  longing,  "  I  want  to  be  at  home,  where  it  is 
quiet,  and  where  the  nights  are  dark,  and  the  stars  shine, 
and  then  I  shall  know  what  to  say." 

She  was  outwardly  calm,  strong,  serene,  save  for  the  un 
shed  tears,  but  her  sweet  peace  was  disturbed.  It  had  felt 
the  shock  of  something  stronger  than  death. 

"  You  shall  answer  me  when,  how,  and  where  you  will," 
said  Medcott  quietly,  with  the  generosity  of  strength.  "  But 
I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  can  speak  the  truth." 

The  evenness  of  his  tone  brought  back  her  usual  repose. 
She  felt  no  longer  the  wish  to  hurry  away.  His  presence 
ceased  to  be  disturbing — it  held  again  its  old  assurance  of 
delight.  They  walked  on  up  the  holiday  street,  the  air 
always  full  of  the  sound  and  life  of  wayfaring  humanity. 
Drivers  of  heavy  drays  blundered  out  of  the  way.  The 
stages  followed  their  serpentine  course  with  an  odd  sort  of 
regularity.  Picturesque  children,  from  the  long-trousered 


258  WHITE   BIRCHES 

but  diminutive  sailor-boy  to  the  faltering  confidence  of 
broad-hatted  and  voluminous-skirted  two-year-old  girls, 
enlivened  the  sidewalk.  Carriages,  with  every  variety  of 
occupant,  and  footmen  of  British  haughtiness,  rolled  swiftly 
up  and  down.  All  were  but  the  common  sights  and  sounds 
of  a  city  thoroughfare,  but  to  Rhodope  that  portion  of  the 
avenue,  measured  by  a  few  blocks,  was  ever  filled  with  a 
certain  radiance  that  lifted  it  above  the  commonplace. 
There  was  a  freedom  in  the  wind  which  blew  in  little  eddy 
ing  whirls  at  the  corners  of  the  cross  streets,  tossing  the 
feathers  and  ribbons  of  the  women,  that  she  had  missed 
before. 

He  had  said  she  need  not  answer  him ;  for  the  present 
she  would  not  even  think  nor  reason.  A  man  crossed  the 
street  towards  them,  threading  his  way  with  careless  alert 
ness  through  the  stream  of  carriages.  It  was  Needham.  It 
was  an  unusual  hour  for  him  to  be  up-town,  but  he  offered 
no  explanation  as  he  greeted  them.  He  had  come  up  as  if 
he  had  something  special  to  communicate,  but  as  he  turned 
and  walked  at  Rhodope's  side  he  seemed  rather  to  be 
waiting  for  them  to  speak.  His  manner  was  at  once  ab 
sent  and  nervously  alive  to  certain  impressions,  as  it  had 
been  often  of  late.  It  was  not  easy  for  any  one  of  them  to 
maintain  the  conversation.  Rhodope  was  too  strongly 
moved  to  talk  quietly  of  ordinary  things.  Medcott  was 
resolved  that  she  should  not  a  second  time  accuse  him  of 
denying  the  situation,  by  putting  its  meaning  lightly  aside. 
Needham  himself  was  blind  to  anything  unusual  in  their  at 
titude,  and  frowned  abstractedly  at  men  and  things,  save 
when  he  roused  himself  to  reply  to  some  half-diffident 
speech  of  Rhodope's.  But  in  spite  of  his  abstraction,  his 
influence  was  potent.  He  brought  Rhodope  back  to  the 
contradictions  and  doubts  of  her  disturbed  existence,  to 
what  she  had  been  fain  to  believe  were  not,  after  all,  the 


WHITE    BIRCHES  259 

eternal  verities,  and  had  restored  to  them  their  apparent 
immutability. 

"  Good-by — for  a  few  hours,"  said  Medcott  in  a  low  tone, 
as  he  held  her  hand  in  a  strong  grasp  at  the  Needhams' 
door,  which  Charlie  was  opening  with  a  latch-key. 

"  Good-by,"  answered  Rhodope  a  little  tremulously  and 
with  troubled  eyes. 

"  She  does  not  understand — she  has  no  far-away  concep 
tion  of  what  it  means,"  Medcott  said  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  back  at  her  as  she  followed  Needham  in,  "  but  she 
knows — we  have  one  secret — she  knows!"  It  was  almost 
enough  for  the  moment,  this  sense  of  understanding,  and  he 
was  almost  untroubled  by  the  half-apprehensive  recollection 
that  "  by  and  by  is  easily  said." 


CHAPTER  XX 

"  A  sad  tale  best  for  winter." 
"  Those  compensations  that,  like  angels  of  justice,  pay  every  debt." 

ROXANA  DUST  had  led  a  monotonously  cheerful  life 
hitherto.  Possibly  the  good  temper  that  had  become 
identified  with  her  personality  was  more  nearly  the  result 
of  circumstances  than  of  actual  disposition — peradventure 
not  nature's  work,  but  fortune's.  At  least,  it  had  been 
fostered  rather  than  tested  by  the  various  experiences 
through  which  she  had  passed.  Child  of  good-humored 
parents,  she  had  grown  up  in  the  midst  of  good-humored 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  had  married  the  most  good- 
humored  of  men.  It  would  seem  that  having  arrived  at 
an  age  when  the  trials  of  life  are  apt  to  be  looked  back 
upon  rather  than  anticipated,  she  might  feel  that  she  had 
escaped  the  danger  of  deterioration.  But  the  laws  of  com 
pensation  were  not  inoperative,  and  with  becoming  humil 
ity  she  began  to  distrust  her  own  ability  to  support  their 
action. 

"  Land  sakes  alive  !"  she  remarked  one  February  noon 
to  Mrs.  Clock,  an  old  and  valued  friend,  who  had  come 
over  to  know  if  she  would  lend  her  some  saleratus.  "  They 
useter  say  I  was  easy  as  'n  old  shoe,  but  as  I  says  to  father, 
take  and  put  pebbles  and  prickles  inter  even  'n  old  shoe, 
and  it  ain't  a-goin'  to  be  a  sight  easier  'n  a  new  one. 
Goodness  knows  I  ain't  begrudgin'  Matilda  anythin',  and  I 
wouldn't  say  as  much  to  anybody  else  as  I'm  sayin'  to  you, 
but  I  do  say  that  now  and  then  I'm  most  put  about." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  261 

"  Isr'el  says,"  remarked  Mrs.  Clock,  who  was  by  nature 
a  conservative  and  seldom  gave  utterance  to  decided  senti 
ments  on  her  own  undivided  responsibility,  "  that  Matilda's 
one  of  them  women  as  is  bound  to  ketch  holt  of  a  kittle 
spout  first  and  then  git  mad  because  she  can't  pour  out  o* 
the  handle." 

"  Well,"  answered  Roxana,  "  I  dono  but  what  there's  con- 
side'ble  truth  in  that." 

Miss  Matilda  Spore  having  come  for  a  week's  visit,  had 
been  detained  by  lumbago  under  the  Dust  roof  for  the 
better  part  of  a  month.  She  had  shut  up  her  own  house, 
Tim  was  away  nearly  all  the  time  now,  and  there  was  really 
nothing  to  interfere,  practically,  with  an  arrangement  so  pro 
ductive  of  social  advantages. 

Notwithstanding  Roxana's  depression  resulting  from  this 
particular  manifestation  of  hospitality,  it  was  not  precisely 
even  now  what  the  journalistic  spirit  of  our  great  country 
has  agreed  to  call  a  "walk  over"  for  Miss  Spore.  Eliza 
beth  French  was  also  a  member  of  the  Dust  household,  and 
from  their  first  encounter  Elizabeth  had  arrayed  her  forces, 
regular  and  irregular,  against  the  encroachments  of  Matilda 
Spore.  And  although  Elizabeth  French  had  lost  much  of 
the  gay,  glowing  audacity  that  had  distinguished  her  when 
she  first  visited  the  valley,  she  was  by  no  means  a  foe  over 
whom  one  could  afford  to  triumph  without  fear  of  re 
prisals. 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  take  it  so  much  to  heart,"  ad 
monished  Tim  on  his  last  visit,  when  he  had  been  invited 
to  take  dinner  at  the  Dust's.  "  You'd  ought  to  take  a  kind 
o'  interest  in  what  Aunt  Matilda'll  find  to  say." 

Elizabeth  was  mixing  a  Sally  Lunn  after  one  of  Mrs. 
Dust's  generous  recipes,  for  the  early  supper.  She  gave  the 
spoon  a  little  vicious  twist. 

"  It  isn't  interesting  any  longer,"  she  exclaimed.    "  She's 


262  WHITE   BIRCHES 

picked  flaws  ever  since  she  came.  I  don't  take  it  to  heart, 
but  Aunt  Roxana" — Elizabeth  had  turned  the  near  friend 
ship  into  a  relationship — "  will  keep  trying  to  please  her. 
You  might  as  well  try  to  please  a — " 

"  A  hornet,"  supplemented  Tim,  as  Elizabeth  hesitated, 
"just  eggzactly.  You'd  hardly  believe  it,"  he  went  on 
modestly,  "but  she  ain't  pleased  with  me."  Elizabeth 
laughed. 

"  After  all,  you  get  along  with  her  better  than  anybody 
else,"  she  said. 

"  That's  because  she  don't  ever  faze  me,"  he  went  on 
with  the  conscious  power  of  a  Talleyrand.  "  She  gets  up 
early  the  mornings  I'm  home,  so's  to  have  more  time  to 
find  fault.  Before  night  comes  she's  clean  tuckered  out 
and  I'm  fresh  as  a  daisy.  I  don't  let  her  wear  on 
me." 

"  I  suppose  that's  the  best  way,"  admitted  Elizabeth. 
"  But  I  wonder  what'll  be  the  matter  with  this  Sally  Lunn. 
I  s'pose  it'll  be  too  brown  or  not  brown  enough." 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  fourth  piece" — Tim  was  a  born  speculator 
— "  that  there'll  be  something  the  matter  with  it  that  you 
never  thought  of." 

"  Well,  if  it's  too  many  eggs,  I've  thought  of  that" 

"  All  right,  check  it  off." 

"  And  if  there  aren't  enough  eggs,  I've  thought  of 
that." 

"  Go  ahead." 

"  And  if  we'd  had  it  yesterday  it  would  'a'  been  better." 

"  Three  of  'em." 

"  And  if  it  tastes  of  baking-powder." 

«  Yare." 

"  And  if  you  can't  raise  it  without  baking-powder." 

"  I  tell  you,  you  know  Aunt  Matilda,"  chuckled  Tim. 
"  Is  that  all  ?" 


WHITE    BIRCHES  263 

"  And  she  likes  Sally  Lunn  better  for  breakfast  than  tea." 

"  That's  six.     Do  you  take  me  up  ?" 

"  Well,  you  wait  till  it  comes  out  of  the  oven,"  said  Eliz 
abeth  with  the  wisdom  born  of  experience,  "  and  I'll  tell 
you." 

When  the  Sally  Lunn  did  come  out  of  the  oven  it  was 
such  a  beautiful  brown  and  so  irreproachably  light  that 
Elizabeth,  moved  by  a  not  unnatural  pride  in  her  own 
handiwork,  was  filled  with  the  confidence  of  a  still  buoyant 
nature,  and  whispered  to  Tim  as  supper  was  ready, 

"I'll  bet  you  my  fourth  piece." 

Tim  waited  with  an  air  that  would  not  have  disgraced 
the  knowledge  of  a  Mephistopheles  concerning  the  short 
comings  of  humanity.  Miss  Spore,  in  a  chair  cushioned  to 
suit  her  infirmities,  was  pushed  to  the  table. 

"  You  was  sayin'  the  other  day,"  said  good-natured  Rox- 
ana,  "  that  you  liked  Sally  Lunn,  and  so  I  had  Elizabeth 
make  one.  Give  Elizabeth  my  receipts  and  she  can  do 
every  bit  as  well  as  I  can."  This  was  high  praise,  and 
Elizabeth  looked  gratified. 

"  Some  uses  receipts,"  said  Miss  Spore  in  discriminating 
criticism,  "some  cooks  just  as  well  without  'em." 

"  Wai,  I  d'ruther  have  one  of  mother's  receipts,"  said 
Ashur,  who  was  fond  of  Elizabeth,  "  than  King  Solomon's 
guessin'  at  it." 

The  Sally  Lunn  was  cut,  and  Tim  had  gotten  well  into 
his  second  piece,  but  with  still  unshaken  confidence,  and 
the  blow  had  not  yet  fallen.  Elizabeth  was  beginning  to 
feel  triumphant. 

"  Well,  now  this  is  real  good,  Elizabeth,"  said  Roxana. 

"  This  was  baked  in  a  shaller  pan,  warn't  it  ?"  asked  Miss 
Spore. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Elizabeth,  avoiding  Tim's  eye  with  de 
liberate  intention. 


264  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I'd  used  the  deep  ones  for  somethin'  else,"  and  Roxana 
grew  somewhat  depressed,  "and  I  said  to  Elizabeth  I 
guessed  these  was  just  as  good." 

"  And  I  don't  see  but  what  they  be,"  said  Ashur. 

"  I  thought  'twas  baked  in  a  shatter  pan,"  went  on  Miss 
Matilda  ruthlessly.  "  It  always  has  a  different  taste  to  me 
baked  in  a  shaller  pan.  It  ain't  as  good.  I've  known  a 
good  many  folks  as  made  Sally  Lunns,"  she  went  on 
thoughtfully,  "  and  I  never  knew  any  of  the  partickler  ones 
to  bake  in  shaller  pans." 

"  I  guess,  Elizabeth,"  said  Tim,  with  studied  restraint, 
"  you  may  as  well  give  me  that  piece.  You've  had  three." 

It  was  some  weeks  since  the  incident,  but  Elizabeth  was 
thinking  of  Tim  and  his  bet  this  evening,  as  she  brushed 
up  the  kitchen  after  another  supper.  It  had  been  a  more 
trying  meal  than  usual.  The  continued  presence  of  Miss 
Spore  was  beginning  to  reconcile  Elizabeth  to  the  prospect 
of  her  own  early  departure.  What  if,  in  leaving  the  valley, 
she  left  behind  her  all  that  could  have  made  her  life  a 
happy  one — still  she  would  be  taken  away  from  this  con 
stant  heart-wearying  querulousness  and  fault-finding,  which 
she  resented  more  on  account  of  her  host  and  hostess  than 
on  her  own.  Her  father  and  mother  were  coming  after  her 
some  time  during  this  week,  and  she  would  go  away  with 
them  and — yes,  she  was  glad  of  it !  Only  those  who  under 
the  pressure  of  a  real  sorrow  or  a  deep  regret  have  been 
obliged  also  to  submit  to  the  petty  injustice  of  little  daily 
unreasoning  plaints  and  innuendos  can  appreciate  Eliza 
beth's  state  of  mind.  Since  the  night  of  the  snow-shoeing 
party  she  had  exchanged  little  more  than  a  word  with  Jib 
Trent ;  her  own  dignity,  after  his  final  repulse,  as  well  as 
his  attitude,  had  insured  that.  But  she  still  loved  him. 
His  contemptuous  indifference  had  accomplished  what  his 
continued  devotion  would  have  failed  to  do — it  had  fettered 


WHITE    BIRCHES  265 

her  waywardness  with  the  chains  of  unsatisfied  longing. 
Now  that  the  final  sting  of  his  cruel  words  had  passed 
away  she  was  even  ready  to  pardon  them  and  to  assume 
and  bear  the  chief  burden  of  the  blame.  If  only  she  might 
hear  him  say  that  he  loved  her  !  With  the  splendid  reck 
lessness  of  her  youth  she  thought  that  were  that  granted 
she  would  demand  of  life  nothing  more  ! 

And  it  had  been  an  unusually  trying  evening  meal.  Eliz 
abeth  had  made  another  Sally  Lunn,  which  had  recalled 
Tim  and  his  ribaldry.  Mindful  of  its  former  shortcomings, 
she  had  baked  it  in  a  deep  cake-pan,  and  had  been  re 
warded  by  the  suggestion  that  if  it  had  been  baked  in  a 
shaller  pan  it  would  have  been  crustier,  and  most  folks 
liked  'em  crustier.  Evidently  Miss  Matilda  wished  it 
understood  that  she  belonged  to  this  class. 

There  had  been  one  passage-at-arms  which  would  have 
gratified  Tim  with  a  single-minded  gratification  impossible 
to  overestimate,  and  which  had  brought  even  to  Elizabeth's 
wounded  spirit  a  slight  uplifting.  It  was  anent  a  certain 
jam  that  had  graced  the  board. 

"  No,  I  won't  take  any  more,  thank  you,"  Miss  Spore  had 
said,  with  a  tinge  of  reproof.  "  It's  currant,  ain't  it  ? — clear 
currant." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dust ;  "  ain't  it  good  ?  It  ain't  tetched 
anyway,  is  it  ?" 

"  Well,"  replied  Miss  Spore,  with  an  effort  to  be  indul 
gent,  "  it  ain't  as  good  as  what  has  rosberries  in.  I  always 
eat  twice  of  that.  Currant  jam  without  rosberries  ain't  ever 
just  the  thing  to  my  taste/' 

Elizabeth  held  her  peace  religiously  until  the  fiat  had 
gone  forth. 

"Aunt  Roxana,"  she  said,  with  an  innocence  worthy  of 
better  things,  "  I  meant  to  tell  you,  when  you  sent  me  for  a 
glass  of  currant,  I  went  in  the  dark  and  brought  a  glass  of 


266  WHITE    BIRCHES 

currant  and  raspberry  instead.  I  didn't  see  it  until  it  was 
opened.  This,  Miss  Matilda,"  she  added  kindly,  "  is  cur 
rant  and  raspberry." 

Ashur  laid  down  his  knife  and  winked  at  Elizabeth.  It 
was  his  usual  way  of  expressing  his  appreciation  of  a  crisis. 
There  was  an  instant's  silence  while  Miss  Spore  fell  back 
upon  her  reserves. 

"  Medder  rosberries,  ain't  they,  Roxana  ?"  she  inquired, 
ignoring  Elizabeth  and  her  ill-advised  supporter  Ashur. 
" Grew  in  the  west  medder,  didn't  they?  In  that  big  patch 
of  bushes  ?" 

"  Well,  I  dono  but  what  they  did,"  admitted  Mrs.  Dust. 

"  I  thought  they  grew  there.  Them  medder  rosberries 
never  had  the  real  rosberry  flavor — I  could  'a'  told  you 
that." 

"  Wai,  Miss  Matilda,"  observed  Ashur,  without  affecta 
tion,  "  I  guess  'bout  the  only  kind  of  rosberries  that'll  suit 
you  is  those  as  grows  in  kingdom  come." 

Miss  Matilda  had  triumphed,  to  be  sure.  Elizabeth  had 
found  Mr.  Dust's  reflection  appropriate  but  inadequate,  and 
she  was  too  depressed  to  retaliate  further,  though  after  all 
she  had  a  certain  glow  of  success  in  driving  her  from  her 
first  position.  But  even  this  had  faded  as  she  seated  her 
self  at  the  little  kitchen  window,  and,  resting  her  chin  in  her 
hand,  looked  out  with  a  sudden,  passionate  longing  that  the 
peace  of  the  scene  might  enter  into  her  soul  and  make  it 
still.  The  pangs  of  unrequited  love  which  are  so  rapidly 
losing  their  early  simplicity,  and  threatening  to  become  ar 
chaic,  were  making  of  ungoverned,  capricious  Elizabeth  a 
rebellious,  heavy-hearted  woman.  The  days  were  growing 
longer,  and  it  was  not  yet  quite  dark.  The  sun  had  set,  and 
left  a  clear,  pale  gold  above  the  hills.  Against  this  the  trees 
stood  straight,  motionless,  and  dark.  They  were  still  far 
from  the  full  leafage  of  summer  and  from,  even  the  delicate 


WHITE    BIRCHES  267 

tracery  of  the  budding  leaves  of  early  spring,  but  neverthe 
less  there  was  an  undefinable  suggestion  of  something  that 
was  not  all  of  winter  in  their  clear  outline.  A  small  moon 
burned  palely  in  the  east.  Spring  was  not  here ;  she  was 
still  afar  off,  but  the  trees  on  the  luminous  mountain-tops 
could  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  approach. 

But  to  Elizabeth  the  spring  brought  no  promise  of  re 
newed  hopes  and  blossoming  happiness.  It  meant  to  her 
but  that  absence  should  be  added  to  despair — to  what  she 
called  despair,  for  she  did  not  yet  know  how  hard  hope  is  to 
kill,  and  that,  so  long  as  she  was  near  Jib  Trent,  she  would 
have  an  unrecognized  hope  of  reconciliation.  Let  them 
come  and  take  her  away!  Let  the  new  birth  of  spring 
come  and  be  but  the  beginning  of  a  greater  weariness ! 

There  was  the  sound  of  steps  upon  the  snow  outside. 
Elizabeth  turned  her  gaze  from  the  hill -tops  to  the  path 
that  led  to  the  kitchen  door,  and  saw  Jib  coming  towards 
her.  Instinctively  she  sprang  to  her  feet  to  hasten  to  open 
the  door — it  was  as  if  the  golden  light  behind  the  moun 
tains  suddenly  pulsed  with  a  wave  of  deeper  radiance. 
Then  she  paused  in  sudden  dread.  Whether  it  was  that 
something  in  his  face,  as  he  looked  up  and  saw  her  at  the 
window,  warned  her ;  whether  it  was  that  a  realization  of 
the  strangeness  of  his  coming  thus  alone,  at  dusk,  when  he 
had  not  trodden  that  path  in  long,  long  weeks,  startled  her 
into  a  presentiment  of  evil — whether  it  was  one  of  these 
things,  or  something  more  subtle  than  either,  she  was  over 
whelmed  for  an  instant.  Recovering  herself,  she  went  on 
and  opened  the  door,  standing  silently,  framed  in  the  low 
doorway,  while  he  drew  nearer,  silent  too,  his  eyes  on  hers. 
In  them  was  no  hesitation,  no  contempt,  no  reproof.  Neither 
was  there  questioning,  petition,  or  forgiveness — nothing  but 
an  unutterable  tenderness.  As  Elizabeth  looked  into  them, 
the  peace,  for  which  she  had  looked  towards  the  sunset  in 


268  WHITE    BIRCHES 

vain,  flooded  her  soul.  All  at  once  she  was  quiet  and  at 
rest ;  there  was  to  be  no  misunderstanding  any  more,  one 
look  at  Jib's  face  had  told  her  that.  But  there  was  some 
thing  to  come  after?  Had  this  sudden  joy  come  to  her 
without  explanation,  without  reckoning  —  a  visitation  of 
God  ?  A  visitation  of  God — the  quaint  phrase  stayed  in 
her  consciousness.  She  had  heard  it  on  Sunday  evening. 
Did  it  not  mean  pestilence,  earthquake,  and  sudden  death  ? 
Were  not  these  things  for  the  most  part  called  visitations  of 
God  ?  Her  happier,  natural  creed  reasserted  itself  against 
the  associations  of  a  gloomy  one.  No  —  whatever  might 
come  after,  whatever  chastening  was  before  her,  this  deep, 
unalterable,  enfolding  love  was  the  true  visitation  of  God  ! 

Jib  took  both  the  hands  which  she  had  instinctively  ex 
tended  to  him,  and  led  her  inside  the  door.  Then  he  drew 
her  into  his  arms. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said  gently.  His  voice  had  a  strange 
huskiness,  unlike  its  usual  sweet,  somewhat  hesitating  utter 
ance.  Moreover,  the  term  of  endearment  was  foreign  to 
his  New  England  undemonstrativeness.  "  I  am  yours,  and 
I  am  all  you  have  in  the  world."  She  raised  her  head  from 
his  shoulder  and  looked  up  at  him  frightened.  He  forgot 
even  how  hard  it  was  to  tell  her.  He  thought  only  of  her. 

"  There  has  been  an  accident,"  he  said,  his  voice  steady, 
but  infinitely  gentle.  "  A  bad  railroad  accident.  The  news 
has  just  come  to  the  valley.  Your  father  and  mother,  Eliza 
beth,  are  among  the  killed." 

Her  head  fell  again  on  his  breast,  as  a  great  darkness  en 
veloped  her.  There  was  absolute  silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  she  stood  upright  and  drew  away  from  him.  He 
let  her  go  instantly,  and  she  steadied  herself  a  moment,  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  and  then  walked  back  to  the  window,  which 
looked  out  to  the  yellow  light,  now  grown  pale,  but  forth 
from  which  stars  were  shining.  Here  she  sank  into  a  chair. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  269 

Jib  watched  her  head  fall  on  her  hands,  and  then  went  tow 
ards  the  door  leading  into  the  sitting-room.  Before  reach 
ing  it  he  paused  a  moment. 

"  Elizabeth,"  said  he,  "  I  want  you  to  remember  that  it 
was  very  sudden  —  there  was  no  suffering."  She  did  not 
answer,  and  he  went  on  into  the  next  room.  The  lamp  was 
burning,  but  Mrs.  Dust  stood  between  it  and  Jib,  throwing 
the  doorway  into  shadow.  She  was  engaged  in  lighting  a 
candle  for  Miss  Matilda,  and  Ashur  had  laid  down  the 
weekly  journal  to  watch  her  success  with  the  paper  lamp 
lighter  she  held  over  the  lamp-chimney.  No  one  of  the 
three  perceived  Jib's  entrance. 

"Well,"  Miss  Matilda  was  remarking  impartially,  "don't 
seem  's  if  you'd  ever  git  it  lighted." 

"  Wai,  I  calculate  even  mother  can't  make  paper  burn 
afore  it  gits  hot  enough,"  said  Ashur  conciliatingly. 

"  That  candlestick  is  the  awk'ardest  thing  to  hold  I  ever 
came  across,"  went  on  Miss  Matilda. 

"It's  your  own  candlestick,"  commented  Roxana,  with 
what  threatened  to  become  tartness  under  further  provoca 
tion. 

"Yes, it  is,"  admitted  Miss  Spore,  who  had  momentarily 
overlooked  the  fact,  "  and  it's  all  dish." 

"  You  was  savin1  the  other  day  you  couldn't  abide  one  of 
them  narrer  candlesticks  that  let  the  grease  drop  all  over," 
said  Mrs.  Dust.  She  had  lighted  the  paper  twist,  and  was 
now  struggling  with  the  candle-wick.  Jib  still  stood  in 
the  shadow.  He  dreaded  to  interrupt  them  —  perhaps  a 
more  fitting  moment  might  come. 

"No  more  I  can,"  said  Miss  Matilda,  undisturbed.  "  Tim 
brought  me  that  one  last  time  he  come  home,  and  says  I, 
'  Wai,  it's  big  enough  to  set  in  the  tabernacle.'  '  Wai,  now, 
Aunt  Matilda,'  says  Tim, '  I  thought  you'd  like  this,  'cause 
it  can't  drip,  and  you  said  the  old  candlestick  was  always 


270  WHITE    BIRCHES 

drippin'.  That  candlestick,'  says  he,  '  couldn't  drip,  not  if 
it  rained  spermacity.'  *  Perhaps  not/  says  I  " — Miss  Matilda 
fell  easily  into  narration,  and  to  do  her  justice  it  was  seldom 
devoid  of  a  certain  interest — "  '  perhaps  not,  but  I  never 
said  that  I  wanted  to  carry  round  a  candlestick  like  John 
the  Baptist's  head  on  a  charger.'  Them  was  the  last  words 
I  said  to  Tim  just  as  he  was  goin*  off — " 

Jib  brushed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  and  stepped  for 
ward. 

"  Miss  Matilda,"  he  said. 

Roxana  nearly  dropped  the  candlestick. 

"  For  the  land's  sake !"  she  exclaimed,  turning  around 
with  the  deliberation  her  size  demanded,  "I  didn't  hear 
you  comin'  in." 

"  Nobody  heard  him  comin'  in  !"  asserted  Miss  Matilda 
with  the  spitefulness  naturally  engendered  by  being  star 
tled.  "  It's  my  belief  he  didn't  want  us  to." 

"I  guess  Jib  Trent  ain't  a  burglar,"  said  Ashur,  with 
humorous  intention.  Then  he  paused.  All  of  them  were 
suddenly  struck  with  the  unnaturalness  of  his  being  in  that 
house  after  so  long  an  interval.  With  the  unconscious  di 
rectness  of  her  simplicity,  Roxana  spoke. 

"Where's  Elizabeth?" 

No  one  answered  her.  Jib  had  come  forward  into  the 
light,  and  they  saw  his  face.  He  was  pale  and  his  features 
were  contracted.  The  exaltation  of  his  care  for  Elizabeth 
had  passed  away,  and  he  was  confronted  by  the  load  he 
had  undertaken  to  bear.  He  felt  himself  a  messenger  of 
death.  Ashur  rose  with  the  slowness  of  hard-worked  age 
from  his  wooden  chair. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  Jib,"  he  said,  "what  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

Before  he  answered  Miss  Spore  spoke. 

"  What'r'  you  lookin'  at  me  that  way  for,  Jib  Trent?"  she 


WHITE    BIRCHES  271 

demanded  harshly,  straightening  herself  in  spite  of  her 
rheumatism. 

"  Elizabeth's  father  and  mother  have  been  killed  on  the 
railroad,"  he  said  with  difficulty.  Roxana  gave  a  sudden 
cry  and  ran  towards  the  kitchen. 

"  Poor  child,  poor  child  !"  she  sobbed. 

At  the  door  Jib's  voice  arrested  her. 

"  And  Tim,"  he  said  with  a  further  effort. 

"Wai,  Tim — Tim  what?"  Matilda's  voice  was  sharper 
than  ever,  though  it  trembled.  "  Why  don't  you  say  what 
you've  got  to  say  ?" 

"  Tim  was  on  the  same  train." 

"  And  he's  with  'em  ?  With  Marcella  and  that  good-for- 
nothin'  Nicholas  ?" 

Miss  Spore  rose  to  her  feet  for  the  first  time  in  weeks 
unaided. 

"Matilda!"  exclaimed  Ashur,  "don't  call  him  that! — 
he's  dead." 

"You  keep  still,  Ashur  Dust,"  said  Miss  Spore  contempt 
uously.  It  was  as  if  her  great  fear  brushed  aside  all  the 
lesser  moralities.  "  He's  with  'em,  I  say — Tim  is  with  'em 
-helpin'  ?" 

"Yes,  he's  with  'em,"  said  Jib  heavily,  "but  not  helping 
— he's  with  'em — wherever  they  are." 

The  young  fellow  was  almost  overborne  with  his  own 
tidings.  He  was  unused  to  such  a  vicarious  weight  of  sor 
row.  Moreover,  she  was  looking  at  him  as  though  she  held 
him  accountable.  At  last  she  understood.  She  sank  back 
into  the  chair  again.  Roxana  had  slipped  out  into  the 
kitchen  to  Elizabeth. 

"The  last  words  I  says  to  him,"  repeated  Matilda  Spore 
mechanically,  "  the  last  words  I  says  to  him — " 

Jib,  avoiding  the  room  where  his  love  sat  hopeless  and 
helpless — beyond  even  his  help  for  the  present — went  tow- 


272  WHITE    BIRCHES 

ards  the  other  outside  door,  and  Ashur  Dust,  his  trembling 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  followed  him.  They  went  out,  clos 
ing  the  door  after  them,  and  spoke  in  low  tones.  Miss 
Spore  sat  there  alone,  facing  her  loneliness.  It  is  given  to 
no  one  of  us  to  alienate  our  fellow-creatures,  one  by  one, 
by  our  own  wilfulness,  counting,  meanwhile,  on  some  one 
affection  as  our  right,  and  therefore  inalienable. 

The  candle  burned  by  her  side  in  Tim's  candlestick.  It 
flickered  in  the  draught  of  the  open  door,  but  did  not  go 
out  When  Roxana  came  back  into  the  room  some  time 
after,  the  little  flame  was  still  there,  and  Matilda  Spore  was 
tearlessly  gazing  at  it.  It  was  as  if  three  strong  lives  had 
been  snuffed  out  since  it  was  lighted,  and  its  feebleness 
still  burned  on  unharmed  and  unresisting. 

The  night  passed.  Roxana  spent  most  of  it  with  Eliza 
beth.  Her  passionate,  overwhelming  grief  she  could  un 
derstand  and  try  to  soothe,  but  the  placidity  of  Roxana's 
nature,  itself  undisturbed  by  excess,  was  ill  at  ease  in  the 
presence  of  Matilda  Spore's  undemonstrative  bitterness. 
She  declined  all  suggestions  of  repose.  No,  she  didn't 
want  to  go  to  bed ;  she'd  set  where  she  was.  As  Roxana 
moved  about  the  room  in  a  sorrowful,  inconsequent  way,  pre 
paring  for  the  night,  she  was  uneasily  conscious  of  Miss 
Spore's  scrutiny.  She  knew  that  her  clumsiness — the  clum 
siness  of  preoccupation  —  was  noticed.  Grief  seemed  to 
have  softened  none  of  the  asperity  of  the  glance  that  fol 
lowed  her  from  the  old  arm-chair.  At  last,  with  a  word  or 
two  of  final  remonstrance,  coldly  received,  she  took  up  her 
candle  and  went  back  to  Elizabeth,  leaving  the  lamp  burn 
ing  and  the  stove  filled  with  wood. 

"I  guess,"  said  Miss  Matilda  as  Roxana  reached  the 
door — "  I  guess  if  Tim  had  'a'  held  on  he  would  'a'  been 
saved."  Mrs.  Dust  waited,  not  knowing  what  to  answer. 
There  was  a  slight  contraction  of  Miss  Spore's  throat. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  273 

"  He  was  always  a  dretful  heedless  boy,"  she  added.  It 
was  the  last  protest  against  fate  that  she  uttered.  Accord 
ing  to  the  habit  of  years,  somebody  must  be  found  fault 
with,  but  it  was  a  feeble  flash  of  the  ruling  passion,  after  all, 
lacking  the  searing,  irritating  quality  that  she  excelled  in, 
and  as  such  was  not  without  pathos. 

It  was  a  melancholy  vigil,  that  of  this  lonely  old  woman 
sitting  alone  in  the  familiar  room,  giving  to  its  familiarity 
an  aspect  of  tragedy,  in  spite  of  the  friendly  lamp  and  the 
nearly  articulate  stove.  It  is  almost  always  a  mistake  when 
it  is  asserted  that  an  individual  who  is  of  a  rough  and  in 
different  behavior  is  one  of  a  nature  of  deep  tenderness 
and  unusual  sensitiveness.  "  As  much  virtue  as  there  is,  so 
much  appears."  Specially  unsatisfactory  are  those  people 
who  flatter  themselves  that  for  a  rude  and  injurious  daily 
conduct  they  stand  ready  to  atone  at  certain  crises  by  un 
usual  steadfastness  and  devotion.  Our  neighbor  is  not  al 
ways  lying  by  the  road-side  robbed  and  left  for  dead,  when 
he  is  in  the  greatest  want  of  strengthening  ministrations. 
Moreover,  "  in  times  of  trial,"  as  Meredith  says,  "great  nat 
ures  alone  are  not  at  the  mercy  of  their  instincts."  Ice 
does  not  form  in  a  warm  neighborhood.  Cold  manners  are 
apt  to  be  the  manifestation  of  a  cold  heart.  Therefore 
Miss  Matilda  Spore  did  not  in  all  probability  suffer  from 
actual  grief  at  the  loss  of  the  only  human  being  that  was 
bound  to  her  by  nearer  ties  than  those  of  a  common  hu 
manity,  as  deeply  as  might  have  a  more  loving  woman. 
But  there  were  added  pangs  of  defeat,  rebellion,  perhaps 
remorse  ;  and,  after  all,  her  lonely,  unappealing,  spare  figure 
represented  a  suffering  of  its  own,  lonelier  and  more  tragic 
in  that  it  was  unlovable.  Tim  had  been  all  that  belonged 
to  her,  and  though  his  claims  had  appeared  to  be  chiefly 
upon  her  faculties  of  rebuke,  she  had  now  and  then  ac 
knowledged  others.  If  an  unusual  softness  of  mood  came 
18 


274  WHITE   BIRCHES 

over  her,  it  was  Tim  that  had  the  benefit  of  it  in  added 
dainties  of  the  table — that  he  might  have  now  and  then 
suffered  from  hunger  less  easily  appeased,  she  had  never 
cared.  If  she  would  not  admit  that  he  was  worthy,  she  al 
ways  denied  that  any  of  his  companions  were  less  unwor 
thy.  And  there  was  a  stout,  robust,  New  England  fibre  in 
her  nature  that  had  stood  her  brother's  child  in  good  stead. 

The  lamp  burned  dim,  the  stove  grew  silent,  she  drew 
her  shawl  closer  around  her  angular  shoulders.  She  had 
slept,  though  she  did  not  know  it — she  looked  out  towards 
the  grayness  of  the  dawn  and  remembered  that  Tim  was 
dead. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Jib,  in  his  sleigh,  drove  up  to  the 
door  to  take  Elizabeth  over  to  North  Lanes,  where  her 
mother  and  father  were  lying.  There  had  been  no  ques 
tion  from  the  first  of  Jib's  right  to  take  upon  himself  all  of 
Elizabeth's  burden  that  could  be  borne  by  another;  the 
care  and  direction  of  most  of  the  details  had  been  left  to 
him.  There  were  no  conventionalities  to  be  infringed,  no 
heedless  speculation  concerning  their  relations  to  be  dread 
ed.  The  whole  population  of  the  valley  was  shocked  by 
the  terrible  accident,  and  in  its  shadow  all  lesser  difficul 
ties  were  forgotten,  and  Jib  reassumed  his  place  by  Eliza 
beth's  side  without  comment.  Miss  Spore,  with  the  for 
titude  of  her  undemonstrativeness,  insisted  upon  being 
wrapped  up  in  shawls  and  buffalo  robes  and  also  driven 
over.  That  she  suffered  intense  pain  weighed  not  a  straw 
in  the  balance  with  her  invincible  will.  Ashur  took  his  seat 
in  the  front  of  the  lumbering  sleigh  and  drove  the  two 
women  down  the  sharp  descent  from  the  farm-house,  while 
Jib  and  Elizabeth  went  fleetly  on  before.  Denver  Trent 
had  expected  to  accompany  them,  but  the  old  man  was  suf 
fering  from  increased  lameness,  easily  contracted  in  his  ex 
posed  life  and  less  easily  thrown  off  each  year  of  his  ad- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  275 

vancing  years,  and  Jib  had  peremptorily  forbidden  it.  Jib 
was  so  rarely  peremptory  that  Denver  Trent  had  yielded. 
The  cold,  crisp  air,  the  unblinking  sunlight,  seemed  but  to 
increase  the  sadness  of  the  long  drive.  Elizabeth  and  Jib 
scarcely  spoke  for  mile  after  mile.  There  was  no  room  in 
her  heart  for  anything  but  passionate  sorrow.  It  was  not 
until  long  after  that  she  knew  what  his  presence  and  con 
stant  care  had  saved  her  from.  If  she  had  been  called 
upon  to  sustain  this  terrible  blow  in  the  unrelieved  loneli 
ness  that  she  had  felt  closing  about  her,  as  she  stood  at 
the  window  looking  towards  the  darkening  hills,  if  she  had 
not  felt  unconsciously  but  keenly  the  strength  of  another 
love  close  at  hand,  it  seemed  to  her,  later,  that  she  should 
have  died. 

As  they  drew  near  the  little  town  of  North  Lanes,  Jib 
said, 

"  Will  you  go  now,  Elizabeth,  or  wait  for  the  others  ?" 

"  I  will  go  now,"  she  said. 

As  they  passed  swiftly  through  the  crooked  streets  a 
wave  of  remembrance  rushed  over  them  both.  They  were 
the  same  streets  through  which  Elizabeth  had  driven  her 
ponies  in  the  audacity  of  beauty  and  skill,  and  where  Jib 
had  first  caught  sight  of  the  vision  that  should  be  to  him 
forever  the  glory  and  the  dream.  Poor  little  Elizabeth! 
From  so  dazzling  a  pageant  to  so  sad  an  errand !  One 
year  had  held  for  her  what  a  long  life  finds  enough  to  com 
pass — triumph,  love,  and  sorrow. 

Jib  did  not  follow  her  into  the  house  whither  she  was  led 
with  the  kindness  and  sympathy  which  strangers  do  not 
withhold  when  it  is  needed.  He  drove  away  and  learned 
about  the  accident.  It  had  not  been  one  of  those  railroad 
horrors  which  fill  a  column  of  the  daily  papers  with  heart 
rending  descriptions  and  a  terrible  list  of  the  killed  and 
wounded.  Only  five  people  had  been  killed  and  only  one 


276  WHITE   BIRCHES 

or  two  others  badly  hurt.  The  car  in  which  had  been 
Nicholas  French  and  his  wife  was  the  only  one  that  had 
suffered.  Officials  were  going  quickly  hither  and  thither. 
The  business  of  the  road  must  go  on,  the  obstruction  of  the 
wreck  was  being  removed  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  a 
heavy  curtain  of  gloom  was  over  all  the  little  community. 
The  accident  had  occurred  a  mile  or  two  from  the  town. 
It  was  as  if  Death  had  come  visibly  among  them. 

"  Where  is  Tim  ?"  asked  Jib,  his  voice  unsteady. 

"  The  newsboy  ?  He  is  over  there,"  answered  a  brake- 
man  whom  he  addressed.  "  They  think  he  must  have  been 
thrown  from  the  platform  ;  he  wasn't  in  the  car.  He  was  a 
plucky  little  feller,"  he  added,  with  the  roughness  of  unac 
customed  sympathy — "all  hands  liked  him."  To  this  man 
it  was  a  serious  accident  and  solemnizing,  but  it  was  not  the 
awful  catastrophe  that  it  was  to  the  less  experienced  dwell 
ers  in  North  Lanes.  This  sturdy  brakeman,  who  had  seen 
death  before,  near  at  hand,  and  had  been  in  more  terrible 
scenes  than  this,  perhaps  would  have  been  satisfied  to  ex 
pect  some  such  eulogy  himself  some  time — "  All  hands  liked 
him."  At  the  door  Jib  met  Miss  Spore  and  Roxana,  and 
they  entered  together.  Tim  lay  in  the  best  room  of  one  of 
the  neighboring  houses.  Possibly  the  scene  never  lost  for 
Miss  Matilda  an  underlying  suggestion  of  satisfaction  that 
the  best  room  of  a  not  unimportant  neighbor,  and  one  keen 
ly  alive  to  the  sacredness  of  a  best  room,  had  been  freely 
offered  on  this  occasion.  There  was  nothing  distressing  in 
the  sight.  It  was  so  unusual  to  see  Tim  absolutely  still — 
that  was  perhaps  the. most  startling  thing  at  first.  The  look 
of  precocious  knowledge  had  vanished  from  his  face,  leav 
ing  a  childishness  that  was  sweeter.  His  cap,  that  gold- 
laced  cap,  the  source  of  so  much  innocent  pride,  which  had 
marked  such  official  distinction,  lay  beside  him,  battered  and 
soiled,  upon  the  floor.  Miss  Matilda  pointed  to  it,  and  Jib 


WHITE  BIRCHES  277 

picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to  her,  and  she  stood  there  hold 
ing  it  and  looking  down  at  its  owner.  Some  one  passed 
under  the  window ;  the  voice,  though  not  the  words,  pene 
trated  the  silence  of  the  room  with  a  touch  of  sacrilege.  A 
boy  who  had  always  envied  Tim's  position  looked  in  at  the 
door,  and,  frightened,  went  quickly  away.  Roxana,  crying 
quietly,  came  out  with  Jib  and  closed  the  door,  leaving 
Miss  Spore  within.  In  the  outer  room  the  wife  of  the  not 
unimportant  neighbor,  with  sympathy  unclouded  by  any 
sense  of  strangeness  in  the  circumstances,  gave  them  some 
things  that  had  been  taken  from  his  pockets.  Among  the 
rest — the  usual  preparations  for  impossible  emergencies 
germane  to  a  boy's  pocket — was  an  envelope  with  a  little 
money  in  it,  addressed  to  his  Aunt  Matilda,  a  book  bearing 
the  inscription  "  For  Jib  Trent — the  best  yet,"  written  in  a 
round,  school-boy  hand,  evidently  for  the  pleasure  of  making 
an  inscription — an  amusement  which  had  no  opportunity 
to  grow  stale  in  Tim's  life — rather  than  as  an  actual  aid  to 
recollection.  There  was  also  a  note  to  a  brother  official — 
the  news  agent  whose  duty  it  was  to  conduct  the  business 
on  alternate  days ;  it  ran  as  follows  : 

"DEAR  FRIEND, — Miss  Rhodope  Trent  will  be  coming  on  the  78 
along  about  next  week.  If  I  ain't  on  the  78  you  look  after  her. 
You've  seen  her  with  me  at  the  Stashun.  She's  the  nicest  -gwl  Lady 
there  is,  but  she  ain't  much  on  the  travell.  You  watch  out  for  her,  Sid, 
and  don't  you  forget  it.  Yours  truly,  TIMOTHY  SPORE. 

"(News  Agent.)" 

Not  so  many,  after  all,  have  gone  to  their  last  account 
with  more  to  the  credit  side  in  the  way  of  unselfish  thought 
for  others  than  Timothy  Spore,  News  Agent. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

*  But  he  is  not  your  lover  after  all — it  was  not  you  he  looked  at !" 

"A  woman  of  the  world — 

— if  she  loves  at  last, 
Her  love's  a  readjustment  of  self-love, 
No  more,  a  need  felt  of  another's  use 
To  her  one  advantage." 

MEDCOTT  rose  from  his  easel  with  a  sigh  of  impatience. 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  said,  "  I've  been  trying  to  think  it's  the 
light,  but  it  isn't ;  it  is  my  hand  that  is  the  trouble — or  my 
brain.  I  haven't  been  able  to  paint  for  a  week  past.  It  is 

*  out  of  me,  out  of  me,'  like  poor  Andrea,  this  afternoon." 

"  Your  mind  is  ill  at  ease,"  remarked  Davenant  senten- 
tiously. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  thinks  I'm  a  dilettante  sort  of  fellow," 
said  Medcott  abruptly.  "With  her  admiration  for  being 
and  doing,  that  would  be  fatal." 

"  If  she  thinks  so— and  I  don't  believe  she  does — it  is 
because  of  her  ignorance.  There  are  enough  people  to  en 
lighten  her." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that—"  and  he  paused. 

"  It  is  only  that  you  think  it  would  seem  more  like  real 
work  to  her  if  you— well,  followed  the  plough.  Now,  I 
don't  believe  she  has  any  idea  of  its  being  your  duty  to  fol 
low  the  plough,  or  would  like  you  better  if  you  did.  Prob 
ably  she  has  before  this  ascertained  that  even  those  who 
are  habitually  engaged  in  following  the  plough  are  not 
thereby  rendered  entirely  superior  to  human  frailty." 


WHITE  BIRCHES  •    279 

Davenant  was  talking  on  in  his  lazy  fashion,  that  seemed 
to  have  no  application  other  than  one  of  general  philosoph 
ical  interest.  Perhaps  he  was  getting  a  little  tired  of  the 
subject.  Medcott  laughed. 

"  How  do  you  like  this  thing  yourself  ?"  he  asked. 

He  had  reseated  himself  at  the  easel,  notwithstanding  his 
dissatisfaction. 

"  I  like  it,"  answered  Davenant.  "  I  don't  know  any 
thing  about  technique,  but  I  know  a  great  deal  about  sen 
timent — I  like  it."  He  did  not  move  from  his  easy-chair 
and  walk  wisely  about  for  different  coigns  of  vantage,  but 
he  spoke  positively. 

"  I  have  hopes  of  it  myself,"  said  Medcott,  and  he  paint 
ed  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  It  was  a  small  picture,  a 
bit  of  moonlit  landscape — a  deeply-shadowed  lane  with  a 
profusion  of  flowering  shrubs  near  two  figures,  a  man's  and 
a  woman's,  leaning  on  a  stone  wall,  all  suggestive  of  youth, 
summer,  emotion — and  off  to  the  left  a  little  graveyard, 
one  or  two  of  the  headstones  shining  palely  in  the  moon 
light.  He  called  it  "  The  happier,  they."  It  had  been  sug 
gested  by  Browning's  "  De  Gustibus  "  : 

"  Hark  !  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl  if  the  good  fates  please — 

Making  love,  say — 

The  happier  they  ! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will,  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  !" 

"  I  wonder  if  Charlie  Needham  is  going  to  the  devil," 
speculated  Davenant  in  a  tone  of  unemotional  inquiry. 

"  Not  faster  than  a  good  many  other  people,  I  guess — by 
freight,  perhaps." 

"  I  don't  know,"  went  on  Tom,  watching  the  smoke  of 


28O    •  WHITE  BIRCHES 

his  cigarette.  "  I  think  it's  getting  almost  too  late  to  whis 
tle  down  brakes — to  carry  out  your  unworthy  metaphor." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?"  and  Medcott  paused  an  in 
stant  to  face  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  one  thing  and  another,"  said  Tom  carelessly. 

"  I'm  sorry  if  it's  so.  Charlie  Needham  has  the  makings 
of  a  good  sort  of  fellow — what  he  needs  is  a  balance-wheel." 

"What  might  you  consider  a  balance-wheel?"  inquired 
Davenant.  "  We  all  have  our  little  ideas.  The  student  of 
human  nature  likes  a  crack  at  them  all." 

"Enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful,"  answered  Medcott 
promptly,  "whether  in  character,  art,'  nature,  morals,  or 
purpose.  Something  besides  a  critical  attitude  towards 
life." 

"Not  an  altogether  original  conception,"  commented 
Davenant,  "but  'twill  serve." 

"  If  a  man  hasn't  that,"  continued  the  other,  "  he's  in  a 
fair  way  not  to  have  anything.  I  came  across  a  remark  of 
Holmes  to  that  effect  the  other  day.  He  says — wait  a  min 
ute  " — and  he  rose  and  picked  up  a  book  from  the  table — 
"  he  says,  '  You  remain  an  idealist — I  sometimes  think  it  is 
the  only  absolute  line  of  division  between  men — that  which 
separates  the  men  who  hug  the  actual  from  those  who 
stretch  their  arms  to  embrace  the  possible.  There  is  no 
profit  in  discussing  any  living  question  with  men  who  have 
no  sentiments — we  don't  talk  music  to  those  who  have  no 
ear.'  There  it  is  for  you  !  I  say,  Charlie  Needham  doesn't 
admire  anything  he  can't  do  or  be  himself — that  is  what  fs 
the  matter  with  him — and  there  is  no  salvation  in — Kleinig- 
kciten." 

"That's  true  enough,"  assented  Davenant.  Medcott 
went  back  a  second  time  to  his  painting.  "  And  I  never 
thought  you  much  of  an  analyst  either.  You  are  too  fond 
of  the  abstract." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  281 

"I  suppose  there  is  an  occasional  point  where  the  ab 
stract  touches  human  nature,"  scoffed  Medcott.  "  Don't 
be  an  ass." 

This  gentle  admonition  drew  a  smile  of  toleration  from 
Davenant  and  the  further  concession  of  silence. 

"  I  wonder  why  she  won't  let  me  see  her,"  exclaimed 
Medcott  suddenly. 

"Austin,"  said  Davenant  gently,  "you  are  getting  to  be 
a  bore.  When  you  have  anything  to  tell  me  about  Miss 
Trent,  I  shall  be  glad  to  listen,"  he  went  on  generously, 
"  but  this  inanity  of  speculation,  guesswork,  and  over-state 
ment  is  rapidly  alienating  my  affections." 

"  I'm  sure  it  is  intentional,"  asserted  Medcott  without 
the  slightest  regard  for  his  guest's  remonstrance.  "I've* 
been  trying  to  see  her  for  ten  days." 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  sighed  Davenant. 

"  I  can't  get  a  word  with  her.  I  saw  Mrs.  Needham 
once,  and  she  told  me  Miss  Trent  was  out." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  was." 

"  Then  I  wrote  to  her,  and  I  haven't  heard  a  word.  There 
is  something  going  on  behind  the  scenes — there  must  be." 

"  It  is  my  firm  knowledge  and  belief,"  declared  Dave 
nant,  "that  man  wants  but  little  here  below,  but  wants 
that  little  long  before  he  gets  it.  Don't  consider  yourself 
exempt  from  the  common  lot." 

"  I  don't !"  replied  Medcott,  starting  up.  "  But  I  mean 
that  I  shall  learn  whether  I  am  to  get  it  at  all  from  the  lips 
of  one  person  only,  and  that  a  league  of  evil  spirits,  how 
ever  clothed  upon  in  the  flesh,  is  not  going  to  turn  me  off ! 
I  know  why  you  are  smiling — you  are  thinking  of  my  doubts 
and  hesitations.  Well,  they  are  over !  I've  never  prided 
myself  on  being  consistent." 

"  I  have  always  felt  that  the  reason  that  consistency  is 
termed  a  jewel,"  considered  Davenant,  "  is  that  it  is  some- 


282  WHITE    BIRCHES 

times  useful  for  ornamental  purposes,  and  costs  a  good 
deal  more  than  much  more  valuable  things." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  always  getting  your  confounded 
note-book  off  on  me,"  objected  Medcott. 

"  I've  pretty  nearly  given  up  my  note-book,"  answered 
Davenant  with  a  touch  of  seriousness.  "  Life  has  grown 
too  interesting — I  need  all  my  aphorisms  for  daily  use." 

Medcott  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise  as  he  laid  aside 
his  palette  and  brushes.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  under 
stood  him. 

"  Come  out  for  a  walk,"  he  said.  "  It's  too  dark  to  work 
any  longer.  It  really  is  the  light  this  time." 

"  What  you  want,"  said  Davenant,  as  they  turned  into 
the  street,  now  darkening,  very  like  the  stage,  as  a  prelim 
inary  to  a  future  blaze  of  electric  light — "what  you  want 
just  now  is  a  female  relative.  It's  a  great  pity  that  your 
mother  is  on  the  other  side ;  she  would  know  just  what  to 
do.  Where's  Mrs.  Harrow?" 

"Mrs.  Harrow  would  not  understand,"  said  Medcott 
briefly.  "  The  best  of  women  will  not  sometimes." 

Davenant  nodded.  Mrs.  Harrow  was  a  devoted  friend 
of  Medcott,  but  he  suspected  her  of  having  views  of  her 
own  for  his  future. 

"  A  man  is  more  or  less  wax  in  the  hands  of  a  woman 
like  Florence  Needham,"  he  said.  "  A  clever  woman  is  a 
particularly  inflexible  kind  of  granite." 

"  I  shall  not  be  wax  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Needham,"  said 
Medcott. 

Davenant's  smile  contained  a  suggestion  of  applause. 

"  But  I  wish,  too,  that  my  mother  were  here,"  went  on 
Medcott.  "I'd  like  her  to  see  Miss  Trent.  Even  Bertha 
might  be  of  use." 

Davenant  shared  the  misgiving  indicated  by  the  form  of 
her  brother's  reference  to  Bertha,  but,  notwithstanding,  he 


WHITE    BIRCHES  283 

thought,  too,  that  Bertha  might  be  of  use.  He  knew  Med- 
cott's  family  as  he  knew  his  own — of  whom  only  his  father 
was  left  for  him  to  know  now. 

"Bertha  is  very  apt  to  come  around  to  doing  the  right 
thing,"  remarked  Medcott,  smiling.  "  My  mother  does  the 
right  thing  at  first,  because  it's  polite,  but  Bertha  has  to 
work  up  to  it  by  following  the  path  of  duty  which,  ten  to 
one,  starts  in  the  opposite  direction,  but,  to  her  surprise, 
fetches  up  at  the  same  place  with  the  conventionally  cour 
teous." 

"  Bertha  would  like  Miss  Trent." 

"  Yes,  but  Miss  Trent  would  seem  to  her  singular.  Peo 
ple  often  seem  singular  to  Bertha.  What  a  comment  it  is 
on  our  civilization  that  she  should  seem  singular  to  a  good 
woman  like  my  sister!"  he  exclaimed.  "We  are  so  over 
laid  with  affectations  that  we  suspect  truth  of  being  in 
masquerade.  Because  Rhodope  is  absolutely  direct,  single- 
minded,  unaffected,  and  unspoiled,  she  strikes  everybody 
as  unusual." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Davenant,  a  little  hurriedly.  "  But  most 
things  are  comments  on  our  civilization,  you  know.  One 
runs  across  them  everywhere." 

Medcott  laughed.  "  All  right,  Tom,"  he  said,  "  I  won't 
tell  you  anything  more  about  Miss  Trent  till  I  have  some 
thing  to  say." 

When  Davenant  left  Medcott  he  had  not  told  him  that 
he  was  going  to  dine  with  Florence  Needham  that  evening, 
but  he  resolved  that  he  would  then  make  some  effort  to 
discover  the  cause  of  the  silence  that  Rhodope  seemed  de 
termined  to  maintain  between  herself  and  her  lover.  Ten 
days  is  a  short  interval  in  the  complex  lives  of  those  who 
dwell  in  cities,  but  it  is  a  long  time  to  elapse  between  such 
words  as  Medcott  had  spoken  and  a  reply.  Knowing 
Florence  as  he  did,  Davenant  felt  that  this  interval  might 


284  WHITE  BIRCHES 

not  be  entirely  due  to  a  natural  sequence  of  events.  It 
was  a  fact  that  he  had  neglected  his  note-book;  that  is, 
that  he  had  ceased  to  be  the  philosophic  observer,  always 
on  the  watch  for  material,  and  had  become  involved  in  the 
underlying  emotions  of  these  three  or  four  lives  to  an 
extent  he  had  not  anticipated.  Scientific  research  is  in 
danger  of  losing  its  quality  of  dispassionateness  when  it 
is  devoted  to  the  development  of  human  thought  and 
feeling. 

As  Davenant  took  a  car  going  up-town,  he  thought  of 
Medcott's  apprehensions.  He  understood  perfectly  why  he 
feared  that,  to  Rhodope,  art  would  not  appear  a  serious  aim 
in  life. 

"  He  thinks  that  to  her  practical  and  yet  ideal  concep 
tions,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  he  will  seem  to  belong  to  the 
category  of  the  decorators  of  paper-knives,  a  calling  that 
appeals  neither  to  the  practical,  nor  satisfactorily  to  the 
ideal." 

Yet  Medcott  was  an  unusually  hard  worker.  He  had  all 
the  fine  contempt  of  an  earnest  laborer  for  those  who  seek 
a  trifling  success  in  what  is  but  an  amusing  one's  self  with 
art.  He  believed  that  nothing  but  the  taking  of  infinite 
pains  brought  assured  results,  and  that  a  serene  and  high 
purpose  were  inseparable  from  a  worthy  devotion  to  the 
production  of  the  best.  Altogether,  he  was  very  far  from  a 
dilettante.  He  would  not  have  been  anything  but  dissatis 
fied  with  the  reputation  of  a  person  of  excellent  taste,  and 
he  had  won  much  more  already.  Success  was  within  his 
grasp,  and  only  those  who  have  worked  thus  realize  how 
rarely  such  success  is  the  result  of  accident.  Davenant 
was  so  interested  in  reflecting  on  this  that,  although  the 
car  was  crowded,  and  while  he  stood,  the  conductor,  on  his 
wedging  way  through  the  car — whose  brute  force  really 
should  have  had  its  usual  accompaniments  of  half-backs' 


WHITE    BIRCHES  285 

and  rushers — planted  his  elbow  firmly  in  the  small  of  his 
back,  thus  steadying  himself  while  he  made  change,  and 
although,  after  he  had  acquired  the  seventh  part  of  a  seat, 
the  large  man  next  him  persistently  sought  for  small  coins 
in  a  rear  pocket,  thus  effectually  pinning  his  face  flat  against 
the  pane — though  these  things  happened,  he  bestowed  upon 
them  an  attention  even  more  cursory  than  they  usually  re 
ceive. 

He  had  been  told  that  there  were  to  be  no  other  guests, 
but  he  was  surprised  that  he  did  not  see  Rhodope.  When 
dinner  was  announced,  and  they  went  to  the  table  without 
her,  Florence  somewhat  negligently  explained  that  she  had 
been  invited  to  spend  a  few  days  with  Edwina  Screed,  and 
would  remain  with  her  until  the  day  after  the  next — as  she 
was  not  going  to  the  Rimmon  dinner,  she  would  stay  until 
it  was  over. 

"  Great  fuss  people  are  making  over  that  Englishman," 
said  Charlie. 

"  Oh,  well,  he  is  rather  a  good  specimen,  after  all.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  if  people  make  a  fuss  over  a  reputable  Eng 
lishman,  Needham,  give  'em  your  blessing.  This  man  real 
ly  has  enlightened  instincts,  and  has  shown  it  in  Parlia 
ment." 

"Yes,  that's  just  it,  in  Parliament — the  House  of  Lords. 
It  isn't  on  account  of  his  enlightened  instincts  they  ask  him 
to  dinner." 

"  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Rimmon  would  never  give  a  dinner  for 
anybody  that  is  not  worth  knowing,"  observed  Mrs.  Need- 
ham  decidedly.  We  have  seen  that  there  were  some  sub 
jects  that  Florence  would  never  admit  were  not  placed  out 
side  the  realm  of  legitimate  criticism.  There  was  a  pause 
as  the  fish  was  removed. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Mrs.  Rimmon's  dinner  ?"  asked  Flor 
ence  suddenly. 


286  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Yes,"  answered  Davenant  carelessly.  "  I  met  some  of 
Lord  Ayforth's  people  abroad,  and  they  let  me  know  he 
was  here,  so  I've  seen  something  of  him." 

Florence  crumbled  her  bread  during  a  moment  of  absence 
of  mind.  This  was  the  sort  of  thing  that  Tom  Davenant 
was  falling  into  all  the  time.  She  was  exceedingly  agree 
able  during  the  rest  of  the  dinner.  Needham  had  an  en 
gagement  almost  immediately  after  it,  as  usual,  and  Dave 
nant  perceived  that  the  tete-d-ttte  that  followed  had  not  been 
unexpected. 

Florence  sat  in  one  of  the  low-cushioned  drawing-roorn 
chairs,  beneath  a  tall  lamp,  whose  shade  spiritualized  her 
beauty  with  its  soft  coloring.  Davenant,  not  far  from  her, 
leaned  against  the  corner  of  a  heavy  screen,  his  thin,  almost 
delicate  face,  with  its  frequent  rather  melancholy  smile, 
turned  towards  the  open  fire.  With  his  air  of  perfect  breed 
ing,  and  apparent  indifference  to  any  effect  he  might  pro 
duce,  his  attractive  cynicism  and  his  real  cleverness,  he  rep 
resented  a  great  deal  to  Florence  Needham.  She  was  quick 
enough  herself  to  admire  his  talent,  but  she  never  dared  to 
dwell  on  that  too  much,  lest  it  should  not  be  that,  but  a 
certain  undefinable  something  else,  that  made  him  so  admi 
rable  to  the  authorities. 

"  Have  you  seen  Medcott  lately  ?"  he  asked,  turning  his 
eyes  from  the  fire  to  hers.  Her  face  hardened  instantly. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  he  has  been  here,  I  believe — but  we 
were  out.  Speaking  of  Medcott,  did  you  see  that  little 
sketch  of  the  Clock  piazza.  ?  He  gave  it  to  me  a  month 
ago.  There  it  is." 

Davenant  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by  her  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said  laughing,  "you  can't  see  it  unless  you 
stand  up.  It  is  on  the  other  end  of  the  shelf." 

"  Why  should  I  rise  to  look  at  the  Clock  piazza  ?"  objected 
Davenant.  "  I  saw  it  for  the  better  part  of  September  most 


WHITE  BIRCHES  287 

of  the  time.  By  what  right  am  I  turned  out  on  the  Clock 
piazza  ?"  Nevertheless  he  rose,  and  crossed  in  front  of  the 
fire.  By  the  side  of  the  sketch  was  a  letter.  It  was  placed 
against  an  ornament  of  the  chimney-piece  in  such  a  way 
that  Davenant  read  the  address  on  the  envelope  instantly 
and  inevitably — "  Miss  Trent " — in  Medcott's  singular  and 
unmistakable  handwriting.  Before  he  could  take  up  the 
sketch  Florence  sprang  to  her  feet  and  snatched  the  letter 
out  of  the  way.  The  whole  performance  occupied  scarcely 
a  minute,  but  it  was  a  minute  that  she  would  gladly  have 
recalled.  The  next  instant  she  stood  with  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  her  invariable  laugh  on  her  lips,  but  conscious  of  her 
mistake,  and  Davenant,  after  one  glance  at  her,  was  quietly 
examining  the  sketch. 

"  It  is  very  good,"  he  said.  "  I  can  almost  see  the  grid 
dle-cakes  through  the  kitchen  door.  Dost  remember  those 
griddle-cakes  ?" 

Florence  tossed  the  letter  down  on  the  table. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  I've  behaved  like  an  idiot,  Tom  ?" 
she  said. 

Davenant  put  the  sketch  back  in  its  place. 

"  I  never  allow  myself  to  get  beyond  implication  of  that 
sort,"  he  said  indifferently.  "  How  do  I  know  but  that  you 
might  consider  idiot  actionable  ?" 

Florence  laughed  again.  Laughter  was  her  resource  al 
ways  in  social  difficulties. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  minded  your  seeing  the 
letter,"  she  said,  rather  inadequately. 

"  That  is  not  the  difficulty,"  he  replied  composedly.  "  It 
is  that,  if  you  had  minded,  you  should  have  put  the  letter 
away  before.  I  read  the  address  unavoidably  in  the  critical 
moment." 

Florence  seated  herself  with  an  effort  to  regain  her  for 
mer  manner. 


288  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  But  there  really  is  no  objection  to  your  knowing  that 
Medcott  has  written  a  note  to  Rhodope." 

"  And  that  you  have  been  keeping  it  a  week  undelivered," 
he  added  quietly.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  interfere 
if  the  opportunity  came  in  his  way.  He  gauged  pretty  ac 
curately  his  influence  over  Florence,  and  the  fancy  for  test 
ing  it,  not  unusual  in  the  philosophic  temperament,  was  an 
additional  reason  for  using  it  for  the  general  good.  She 
instantly  recognized  that  evasion  would  be  useless. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  defiantly. 

"  Well,  what  objection  is  there  to  my  knowing  that  too  ? 
And  why  should  you  have  fancied  that  there  could  be  one  ?" 

She  came  to  a  sudden  decision,  led  to  it  by  a  variety  of 
causes.  In  the  first  place,  her  flame  of  resentment  towards 
Medcott  sought  an  outlet ;  and  her  jealous  dislike  of  Rhod 
ope  had  become  unbearable  in  silence ;  and  the  vexation  of 
the  whole  situation  was  extreme.  There  is  a  certain  relief 
in  giving  utterance  to  such  a  complication  of  feelings  to  a 
person  thoroughly  cognizant  of  all  the  circumstances  and 
personalities  concerned,  even  though  this  very  knowledge 
makes  the  listener  a  disapproving  one.  Moreover,  there 
were  other  more  gratifying  influences  at  work.  She  felt  the 
intoxication  of  confidence  to-night.  She  had  reached  an 
advantageous  eminence  in  the  social  range.  She  was  going 
to-morrow  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Rimmon.  Below  her  were  the 
smiling  but  unimportant  valleys  of  undefined  but  cheerful  lo 
cation  ;  below  her  the  slopes  of  precarious  but  rewarding  ef 
fort;  above  her,  a  little  nearer  than  ever  before,  gleamed  the 
lofty,  if  somewhat  icy  and  unresponsive,  peaks  of  English  so 
ciety.  This  consciousness  gave  her  an  almost  uncalculating 
recklessness.  And  in  Davenant's  presence  there  was  always 
the  stimulus  of  a  sentimental  past  and  an  emotional  present. 
She  felt  sure  that  she  could  sway  Tom  Davenant  as  it  had 
been  given  to  no  other  woman  to  sway  him. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  289 

All  her  cleverness  could  not  save  her  from  this  danger  of 
personal  vanity — that  of  overestimating  the  power  which 
her  beauty  placed  in  her  hands. 

"  And  suppose  all  that  you  suspect  is  true  ?"  she  de 
manded,  rising  again  and  coming  nearer  him,  her  eyes  on 
his.  **  Suppose  that  I  have  been  keeping  this  letter  from 
Rhodope,  hoping  that  it  may  lead  to  misunderstanding? 
Suppose  that  I  did  succeed  in  preventing  him  from  seeing 
her  when  he  called  ?  Suppose  I  would  like  to  break  off 
all  communication  between  them  ?  What  of  that  ?"  Her 
voice  rang  with  audacious  defiance.  She  let  the  storm  an 
nounce  itself. 

Davenant  looked  at  her  critically  a  few  moments  before  he 
answered,  contemplating  his  own  attitude  with  an  impulse 
of  curiosity  greater  than  that  with  which  he  regarded  hers. 
Passionate,  brilliant,  confident  as  she  was,  suddenly  she 
stood  before  him  divested  of  the  slight  charm  which,  with 
cynical  tolerance,  he  had  yielded  to  her  during  these  last 
months.  And  yet  he  was  conscious,  too,  of  a  quick  apprecia 
tion  of  the  added  interest  that  this  flash  of  overmastering 
feeling  lent  her.  It  was  the  touch  needed  to  lift  her  beauty 
above  the  trivial. 

"  If  that  is  true,  it  will  convince  me  that  in  moments  of 
some  excitement  I  have  not  overrated  your  capacities  for 
evil,"  he  answered  at  last,  with  the  increased  slowness  of 
utterance  he  was  apt  to  use  on  occasions  which  seemed  to 
call  for  rapid  speech. 

u  It  is  true.  I  would  give  a  great  deal,"  and  she  clenched 
her  hands  with  an  impulse  that  was  half  natural,  half  theat 
rical,  "  to  keep  them  apart — to  make  mischief." 

"  You  have  very  respectable  gifts  in  that  line,"  said  Dave 
nant  appreciatively. 

"  I  hate  her,"  said  Florence  with  a  little  stamp.     "I  tell 
you  I  hate  her !" 
T9 


WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't,  Florence.  Hate  is  one  of  the  strong 
emotions.  You  are  not  the  sort  of  woman  that  hates." 

His  tone  was  rendered  contemptuous  by  his  feeling  for 
the  woman  of  whom  she  spoke,  but  what  he  said  was  true. 
There  was  lacking  in  all  she  said  the  dignity  of  a  passion 
ate  hatred.  Even  an  unusual  stress  of  feeling  scarcely 
lifted  her  above  the  commonplace  of  a  pretty,  capricious, 
jealous  woman  who  resents  the  praise  of  a  rival. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  hate  her?  She  has  come  between 
me  and  so  much.  Last  summer  you  were  all  so  foolish 
about  her,  do  you  remember?  And  this  winter— what  has 
she  done  ?  She  has  made  no  friends.  She  has  attracted 
no  attention.  She  has  been  difficult— oh,  difficult  does  not 
express  it!" 

Florence  did  not  realize,  in  the  suddenness  of  this  out 
break,  how  she  was  exploiting  her  own  motives.  Davenant 
smiled  as  he  listened. 

"  You  may  laugh,  but  she  has  been  a  burden — a  positive 
burden,  I  tell  you !  Even  Charlie  thinks  her  superior  to 
me— as  if  I  cared  for  that!"  and  she  laughed— "but  that 
is  what  the  people  think  who  have  liked  her — that  she  is 
superior !  Do  you  suppose  I  asked  her  here  to  be  my  su 
perior?  They  have  thought  her  that— but  she  has  made 
no  sensation.  Unless  you  consider  that  Austin  Medcott  is 
securely  entrapped — that — " 

"  That  will  do,  Florence,"  said  Davenant  suddenly,  and 
she  paused.  "  You  have  a  certain  vivacity  of  expression," 
he  went  on,  "  an  ease  in  asserting  and  in  contradicting  your 
self,  with  a  general  ardor  of  frankness  that  is  pleasing — " 

"  Oh,  how  I  hate  you  when  you  talk  that  way !"  and  Flor 
ence  flung  herself  again  into  her  low  chair. 

Just  how  much  she  was  acting,  how  far  she  was  natural, 
he  hardly  knew.  Her  anger  was  real,  her  expression  of  it, 
though  not  studied,  was  conscious. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  2QI 

"  But  there  is  a  limit  to  what  is  pleasing  even  in  that  line, 
and  I  think  you  have  reached  it.  Medcott  has  certainly 
fallen  in  love  with  Miss  Trent" — she  would  have  inter 
rupted  him,  she  was  so  unwilling  to  hear  him  say  it,  but 
he  would  not  be  interrupted — "  but  you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  it  has  been  singularly  without  provocation  beyond 
that  perennial  and  legitimate  provocation  of  beauty,  nobil 
ity,  sweetness,  and  truth." 

She  was  silenced  in  spite  of  herself,  but  she  was  the 
more  angry.  She  had  hoped  to  carry  him  with  her  in  the 
sweep  of  her  indignation,  and  she  had  but  driven  him  to 
array  himself  on  the  side  of  her  rival. 

"  If  he  succeeds  in  winning  her  he  will  be  fortunate  be 
yond  even  his  deserts." 

"  I'd  like  to  have  his  mother  and  sister  hear  you  say  so !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  that  the  future  very  likely  has  in  store 
for  you.  In  the  meantime  I  insist  that  you  cease  your  dis 
interested  efforts  to  preserve  his  peace  of  mind  intact."  He 
came  close  and  leaned  over  her  chair.  "  I  insist,  Flor 
ence,"  he  repeated.  •  ' 

She  looked  up  at  him  defiantly,  but  her  heart  misgave 
her.  She  realized  with  a  shock  that  whatever  might  be  her 
power  over  him,  his  was  stronger  than  ever  over  her.  Un 
consciously  what  he  had  grown  to  represent  to  her  had 
added  its  increasing  weight  to  the  old  domination,  and  even 
the  strength  of  her  attachment  to  Medcott  dwindled  beside 
her  feeling  towards  this  slight,  pale,  indifferent,  half-con 
temptuous  man. 

"And  suppose  you  do  insist?1'  she  said,  angrily  still. 
"  Suppose  that  I  prefer  to  win,  if  not  the  future  gratitude  of 
Austin  Medcott  himself,  at  least  the  present  gratitude  of 
his  mother,  sister,  and  other  friends  less  blinded  by  preju 
dice  than  you  are  ?"  He  did  not  answer  her,  but  he  re- 


292 


WHITE    BIRCHES 


garded  her  more  seriously  than  usual,  while  the  lines  of  his 
mouth  grew  more  determined. 

"  Think  of  it,  Tom,  for  a  moment !"  she  went  on,  sitting 
erect  in  her  chair.  "  Just  think  one  moment  of  the  folly  of 
it — the  utter  folly  of  it !  That  country-girl  and  a  man  like 
Austin  Medcott — critical,  artistic,  oh — finished^  everything 
that  she  is  not !" 

"We  won't  discuss  it  on  general  principles,  but  I  want 
you  to  give  up  your  present  policy  of  obstruction." 

"And  if  I  do  not?" 

"If  you  do  not,  you  will  not  do  the  least  real  harm — 
which  ought  to  be  a  consideration  to  you — but  you  may 
cause  some  unhappiness." 

Davenant  felt  truly  that  while  Rhodope  was  here  she 
would  feel  herself  absolutely  dependent  upon  Florence 
Needham's  treatment  of  her,  and  that  therefore  Florence 
held  a  certain  command  of  the  situation  which  he  and  Med 
cott  could  neither  of  them  disturb  by  any  direct  appeal  to 
Rhodope.  She  looked  him  steadily  in  the  face  a  moment, 
and  then  her  eyes  fell.  If  Davenant  had  wanted  revenge 
for  the  pain  she  had  made  him  suffer  years  ago,  he  might 
have  found  it  then ;  but  he  had  not  cared  for  revenge. 
Neither  was  he  a  vain  man,  but  he  was  not  blind,  and  he 
perceived  the  working  of  his  experiment. 

"  She  shall  have  her  letter  to-morrow,"  she  said  with  an 
attempt  at  sullenness.  "  I  can't  send  it  to  her  to-night." 

"And  she  shall  see  Medcott  if  he  comes?" 

"  I  shall  take  no  steps  to  prevent  it" 

Then  there  was  silence.  He  saw  that  she  was  still  angry, 
but  she  had  yielded.  With  all  the  keenness  of  his  percep 
tions,  however,  he  could  not  tell  just  how  much  this  yield 
ing  promised  for  the  future.  He  went  back  and  seated 
himself  where  he  had  been  before  he  rose  to  look  at  the 
picture.  He  would  take  leave  in  a  few  moments,  but  he 


WHITE    BIRCHES  293 

did  not  like  to  have  the  air  of  vanishing  on  the  wave  of 
triumph.  Florence  turned  her  head  towards  him,  where  it 
rested  on  the  rich  coloring  of  the  chair.  Her  whole  man 
ner  was  changed,  her  voice  was  softer ;  she  had  laid  aside 
her  vexation. 

"  I  should  not  think  you  would  so  misunderstand  me," 
she  said — "  you,  who  once  loved  me." 

Davenant  was  distinctly  conscious  of  a  wish  that  she 
had  not  said  it,  but  he  smiled  with  an  entire  absence  of  ap 
parent  disturbance. 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  thoroughly  misunderstood  you, 
Florence — I  who  once  loved  you." 

Had  she  been  a  wiser  woman  that  would  have  been 
enough. 

"  Yes,  you  have,"  she  persisted. 

"  I  wish  I  misunderstood  her  now,"  he  thought.  "  Why 
will  women  never  believe  in  a  past  ?" — "  What  do  you  want 
me  to  say  ?"  he  asked  aloud. 

It  was  a  question  he  was  always  asking  her,  and  the 
transparency  of  its  deference  usually  disconcerted  her  and 
made  her  petulant.  To-night,  in  the  new  exaltation  of  her 
spirit,  it  stimulated  her  to  a  reply. 

"  I  want  you  to  say  that  you  have  forgiven  everything, 
but  not — forgotten  everything."  The  relationship  between 
a  tear  and  her  half-smile  could  easily  be  traced. 

"  I  have  forgiven  everything  long  ago,"  he  answered, 
"  and  I  have  forgotten — nothing." 

He  had  obeyed  her  literally,  but  she  was  not  satisfied. 

"  What  have  you  remembered  best  ?"  she  demanded  with 
a  pretty  childishness. 

"  How  pretty  you  were,"  he  answered  promptly.  "  But 
then  I  disclaim  any  credit  for  that,  because  I  have  been 
constantly  reminded  of  it  since." 

As  usual  she  could  not  withstand  a  compliment  to  her 


294  WHITE    BIRCHES 

beauty.  Her  smile  this  time  was  further  from  the  line 
that  divides  pleasure  from  grief. 

"What  did  you  do  after  you  went  abroad?" 

"  You  tempt  me  to  be  autobiographical,  and  I  hate  it." 

He  spoke  honestly,  but  it  is  a  question  whether  at 
another  time  he  would  have  admitted  that  anybody  ever 
hates  to  be  autobiographical. 

"  That  is  what  I  want,"  she  said. 

"  She  will  have  it  and  she  deserves  it,  but  it  seems 
particularly  brutal  just  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  rose 
and  stood  by  the  table  on  which  she  leaned  her  half-bare 
arms,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She 
hardly  knew  what  she  expected.  She  had  not  recovered 
from  her  surprise  at  the  revelation  of  his  new  power. 

"  I  fell  in  love,"  he  said  briefly. 

She  let  her  hands  fall  one  on  the  other  and  opened  her 
eyes  wide. 

"  With  some  one  else  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Would  you  have  had  me  go  on  falling  in  love  with  you 
— you  who  preferred  Charlie  Needham  ?" 

For  the  time  all  Florence's  pique  and  disappointment 
were  swallowed  up  in  simple  curiosity. 

"  And  she — did  she  not  care  for  you  ?"  she  asked. 

Davenant's  expression  changed. 

"  Yes.  She  cared  for  me — and  she  died,"  he  answered. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence.  A  lump  of  coal  fell  noisily 
apart  in  the  heart  of  the  fire. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  ago,"  he  went  on  quietly.  "  It  has 
become  a  memory  rather  than  a  sorrow,  perhaps.  Rhodope 
Trent  reminds  me  of  her." 

He  was  apparently  perfectly  unmoved.  He  would  tell 
Florence  Needham  the  fact  since  she  asked  for  it,  but  he 
was  not  bound  to  show  her  anything  beyond.  With  her 
natural  selfishness  she  saw  only  its  relation  to  herself. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  295 

Perhaps  no  more  stinging  blow  could  have  been  devised. 
Not  only  had  he  not  been  faithful  to  his  first  love, 
his  second  had  resembled  not  her — but  Rhodope  Trent. 
With  feminine  intuition,  she  caught  the  realization  of  just 
what  her  subsequent  power  over  Davenant  had  been, 
and  how  trifling  it  was.  Later  it  would  be  obscured  by 
jealousy,  vanity,  self  -  love — just  now  she  saw  it  in  a  flash 
of  revealing  illumination.  All  the  disappointment,  the 
consciousness  of  what  she  had  irrevocably  lost  so  long  ago, 
linked  itself  with  one  of  his  last  utterances. 

"  And  I — I  preferred  Charlie  Needham,"  she  repeated 
almost  mechanically.  This  gave  Davenant  the  opportunity 
he  wished  for. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  you  were  wise  enough.  And  as 
we  have  come  round  to  Needham,  let  me  say  another  thing 
— look  out  for  him.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  like  himself 
lately." 

"He  is  cross,"  she  admitted  absently. 

"  Perhaps  he  has  some  reason  to  be  cross— he  may  be  ill." 

It  was  natural  that  she  should  follow  his  lead  back  again 
to  the  level  of  friendship.  She  was  always  quick  to  adapt 
her  mood  to  his  and  find  the  reason  afterwards.  Moreover, 
it  was  a  part  of  their  singular  relation.  Florence  was  begin 
ning  to  realize  that,  however  he  might  wound  her  vanity,  she 
could  never  be  angry  with  Tom  Davenant.  She  did  not 
think  of  it,  but  she  was  made  aware  that  so  far  as  con 
cerned  these  two,  this  power  to  wound  and  not  be  hated 
had  passed  forever  from  her  hands  into  his. 

"  He  talks  about  extravagance — fancy ! — extravagance — 
to  me  !  As  if  I  could  live  without  extravagance  !"  and  she 
laughed. 

"  There  are  people  who  do,  I  have  understood."  Her 
lightness  irritated  him  into  being  didactic,  for  he  knew  some 
thing  of  Needham's  state  of  mind. 


296  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  But  they  have  not  done  what  I  have  done,"  she  said 
with  a  little  toss  of  her  head.  "  Charlie  ought  to  be  grate 
ful  fo  me." 

He  knew  she  was  caught  up  into  a  vision  of  the  Rimmon 
dinner. 

"  And  he  is,  no  doubt.  So  am  I,"  and  he  held  out  his 
hand—"  Good-by." 

"Why  are  you  grateful  to  me?"  she  asked,  giving  him 
hers. 

"  For  what  you  have  done,"  he  said  enigmatically.  "  And 
I  expect  you  to  do  more,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  I  expect 
you  to  save  me  from  the  approach  of  Mrs.  Eunam  to-mor 
row  night.  She  will  be  there,  and  she  continually  spreads 
a  net  for  my  feet,  and,  having  caught  me,  forces  me  to  listen 
to  recitations.  They  are  from  a  book  she  is  getting  out, 
which  she  calls  *  Extracts  from  Some  of  our  Neglected  Au 
thors/  I  have  ascertained  that  it  is  made  up  exclusively 
from  her  own  works.  So  is  her  sorrow  turned  into  joy. 
Good-night." 

Florence  sat  where  he  left  her  for  some  time.  The 
evening's  conversation,  while  it  had  perhaps  gained  for 
Rhodope  some  practical  advantages — for  it  had  shown 
Florence  that  Davenant  was  on  the  watch  for  unfriendli 
ness,  and  would  resent  it,  and  she  dreaded  his  resentment 
— had  but  increased  the  load  of  her  offendings.  The  whole 
fabric  that  she  had  reared  of  his  long  devotion  to  her  and 
his  newly-awakened  susceptibilities  had  fallen,  leaving  in  its 
place  a  new  image  that  was  in  the  similitude  of  Rhodope 
Trent. 

Davenant  reached  home  late  that  night,  having  kept  one 
or  two  other  engagements  after  leaving  Florence.  Going 
to  his  desk,  he  picked  up  his  neglected  note-book,  and 
wrote  half  a  page  : 

"Melancholy  Adventures  of  a  Young  Man  who  would 


WHITE    BIRCHES  297 

fain  play  Providence.     His  Assumption  of  the  Role.     His 
various  Incapabilities.     His  dreary  Failure." 

Such  was  the  general  statement,  and  he  developed  it 
somewhat  further :  "  Who  suggests  to  one  woman  to  bring 
another  woman  and  a  mutual  friend  into  more  intimate  re 
lations.  Mistake  No.  i,  though  maybe  all  for  the  best. 
By  judicious  management  of  the  circumstances  makes  one 
woman  the  deadly  enemy  of  the  only  one  he  cares  about. 
Mistake  No.  2.  Who  eggs  on  the  mutual  friend  into  dan 
gerous  committals,  and  produces  a  great  deal  of  misunder 
standing.  Mistake  No.  3,  but  not  serious,  because  it  would 
have  happened  anyway.  Who  clinches  the  situation  by  di 
plomatizing,  bullying,  and  instructing  the  woman  he  once 
loved  through  an  assumption  of  roles  varying  from  that  of 
Mephistopheles  to  that  of  the  excellent  Jane  Taylor.  Mis 
take  No.  4.  Gloomy  reflections  of  the  Young  Man  who 
would  fain  play  Providence." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"  No  man  has  learned  anything  rightly  until  he  knows  that  every  day 
is  Doomsday." 

"  '  Faithless  and  faint  of  heart,'  the  voice  returned, 
1  Thou  seest  no  beauty  save  thou  make  it  first ; 
Man,  Woman,  Nature,  each  is  but  a  glass 
Where  the  soul  sees  the  image  of  herself, 
Visible  echoes,  offsprings  of  herself.'  " 

"  Hardly  know  which  way  to  turn.  Guess  you'd  better 
come  along  home. — UNCLE  DENVER." 

Such  was  the  despatch  that  Rhodope  read  as  she  stood 
by  the  window  in  the  Screed  house,  with  Edwina  and 
Helena  both  waiting  with  the  undisguised  curiosity  per 
missible  regarding  other  people's  telegrams. 

"  Uncle  Denver  wants  me  at  home,"  she  said ;  "  I  hope 
nothing  has  happened." 

None  of  the  sad  news  of  the  valley  had  been  communi 
cated  to  Rhodope.  Denver  Trent,  with  his  usual  common- 
sense,  had  insisted  that  if  there  was  no  call  for  her  to  come 
home,  and  as  she  couldn't  bring  the  dead  to  life,  she 
shouldn't  be  told  and  kep'  awake  nights,  wonderin'  if  there 
was  anythin'  she  could  do.  "  If  there  was  anythin'  tryin' 
to  human  natur'  it  was  wonderin'  if  you  couldn't  do  some- 
thin'  when  you  was  far  away,"  thus  had  he  enlarged  upon 
the  subject,  and  he  guessed  "  'twas  more  'n  likely  Rhode  'd 
find  there  was  enough  things  in  New  York  to  worry  about, 
without  worryin'  'bout  the  valley  too." 

Needham  had  read  a  notice  of  the  accident  in  the  daily 


WHITE    BIRCHES  299 

paper ;  but  though  he  saw  it  was  somewhere  in  that  neigh 
borhood,  had  not  connected  it  with  valley  interests  at  the 
moment,  and  the  next  moment  it  was  forgotten.  As  for 
Rhodope,  she  had  not  learned  to  regard  the  presence  of 
papers  whose  numerical  strength  so  far  exceeded  that  of 
the  valley  supply,  and  Florence  shared  the  prevalent  femi 
nine  conviction  that  while  newspapers  were  the  natural 
pabulum  of  man,  a  fact  no  more  to  be  questioned  than 
other  mysterious  dispensations  of  Providence,  and  undoubt 
edly  suited  to  his  special  needs,  they  were  not  worthy  the 
abiding  attention  of  woman,  wisely  bestowed  on  more  im 
portant  interests. 

"Oh,  I  don't  believe  so,"  said  Edwina  quickly.  "You'll 
have  a  letter  perhaps  to-morrow.  That  telegram  doesn't 
sound — well— immediate." 

"  That  telegram,"  said  Helena  impressively — "  that  tele 
gram  settles  it !  I  shall  marry  Uncle  Denver." 

Rhodope  smiled.  It  had  been  Helena's  custom  for  some 
days  to  express  admiration  of  Uncle  Denver.  Her  profes 
sions  before  Walter  Mevans  and  others  in  a  similar  situa 
tion  were  nothing  less  than  wanton  in  their  indifference  to 
possible  misconstruction. 

"  No,  you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that,  Edwina,  and  I 
don't  care  if  Rhodope  does  from  this  moment  devote  her 
self  to  a  serpentine  policy  of  defeating  my  plans — I  tell 
you  I  shall  marry  Uncle  Denver.  Any  man  that  will  write 
such  a  telegram  as  that,  conveying  to  the  remotest  shade 
of  feeling  what  he  means  to  say  without  a  thought  of  ex 
pense — that  man  would  be  an  ideal  husband  !" 

"  Is  it  very  expensive  ?"  asked  Rhodope,  somewhat  sur 
prised. 

"  Expensive  !"  exclaimed  Helena.  "  I  don't  believe  the 
cattle-kings  ever  send  a  telegram  of  more  than  ten  words." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  do,"  said  Edwina,  with  the  fine  literamess 


300  WHITE    BIRCHES 

with  which  she  opposed  her  sister's  exaggerations.  "  There 
is  the  Associated  Press — " 

"  The  Associated  Press  is  a  corporation  !  We  are  taught 
in  our  nurseries  that  *  Thou  shalt  not '  does  not  apply  to 
corporations,  only  to  individuals.  No  one,"  she  repeated, 
"but  a  cattle -king  and  Uncle  Denver  would  have  sent 
that.  I  like  a  man  when  he  is  going  to  make  an  outlay  to 
make  an  outlay.  Do  you  suppose  a  man  that  sent  that  tele 
gram  would  ever  ask  you  what  you  did  with  the  change  of 
a  thousand -dollar  bill?  Rhodope,"  she  went  on,  having 
satisfied  herself  that  her  extraordinary  inconsequence  had 
left  room  only  for  a  consideration  of  ways  and  means,  "  when 
will  you  wish  to  start  ?" 

"  Oh,  to-morrow — to-morrow  early." 

"  Then  you  shall  be  driven  round  to  Mrs.  Needham's 
this  afternoon  instead  of  to-morrow.  It  is  too  bad  about 
your  lonely  evening,  but  it  will  give  you  time  to  pack  and  be 
ready  to  leave  in  the  morning." 

It  was  growing  dark  when  Rhodope  ran  up  the  steps  of 
the  Needham  house  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Good -by,"  called  Helena  from  the  carriage  -  door. 
"  Don't  forget  to  tell  Uncle  Denver  that  I  am  coming  up  to 
marry  him.  I'm  afraid  it  may  slip  your  mind.  Good-by." 

The  servant  who  admitted  her  said  that  Mrs.  Needham 
was  still  out.  He  was  not  sure  if  Mr.  Needham  was  at 
home,  but  he  thought  not.  Miss  Trent  had  not  been  ex 
pected  that  afternoon,  as  no  one  had  known  of  a  telegram 
except  the  servant  who  had  received  it  at  the  door  and  sent 
it  around  to  Miss  Screed's  on  his  own  responsibility.  He 
hoped  he  had  done  right.  Quite  right — and  Rhodope  went 
upstairs  to  her  own  room.  There  she  began  to  make  her 
arrangements  for  leaving,  quickly,  though  not  hurriedly,  for 
she  had  the  whole  long  evening  before  her.  She  occupied 
herself  with  a  certain  eagerness  that  she  might  not  have  too 


WHITE    BIRCHES  301 

much  time  to  think.  Notwithstanding  Helena's  nonsense 
and  Edwina's  sensible  representations,  she  could  not  help 
being  somewhat  anxious  concerning  the  motives  of  the  tele 
gram. 

At  last,  all  the  preparations  made  that  could  be  attended 
to  just  then,  she  seated  herself  in  the  dusk  before  the  fire 
to  wait  until  she  should  hear  that  Florence  had  come  in. 
She  was  tired,  and  the  open  fire  made  her  think  of  that  in 
the  living-room  at  home.  Uncle  Denver  was  probably  sit 
ting  by  it,  thinking  of  how  she  would  come  on  the  morrow. 
What  was  the  cloud  that  perhaps  hung  over  his  spirit? 
Surely  Jib  was  there  and  a  book  with  a  frontispiece  of  hor 
rors  that  but  whetted  the  appetite  for  further  disclosures, 
and  with  which  he  was  absorbed  at  the  littered  table — both 
elbows  amid  the  rest  of  the  things  that  covered  it  in  a  con 
fusion  fostered  by  her  absence.  Now  and  then  the  lamp 
smoked  unnoticed,  until  Uncle  Denver,  becoming  suddenly 
conscious  that  something  was  wrong,  roared  at  Jib,  who  in 
attentively,  as  though  it  were  a  thing  little  worth  doing, 
turned  it  down.  The  homeliness  of  the  scene,  its  familiar 
ity,  its  closeness  to  those  who  were  her  very  own,  whom  she 
loved  and  who  loved  her,  the  dear  accustomedness  of  it, 
came  over  her  with  that  strength  of  longing  that  threatens 
to  be  heartbreak,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  They  were  over 
in  a  few  moments,  and  she  sank  back  in  her  chair  again, 
quieted  by  the  happy  knowledge  that  she  should  see  it  all 
to-morrow.  Her  lips  still  drooped  a  little ;  the  heavy  masses 
of  her  hair  had  fallen  lower  in  her  neck;  she  had  been 
paler  of  late,  and  her  fatigue  added  to  her  pallor  to-night. 
She  was  far  from  the  free,  brave,  strong,  unsaddened  dwell 
er  in  the  forest  she  had  seemed  to  Medcott  that  day  so 
long  ago — that  spirit  of  the  woods.  Instead,  she  was  but  a 
woman  whose  beauty  and  strength  could  not  save  her  from 
doubt,  perplexity,  and  sadness.  As  she  waited  she  remem- 


302  WHITE    BIRCHES 

bered  a  book  she  wished  to  take  away  with  her,  and  that 
was  in  the  library.  As  she  rose  to  go  and  look  for  it,  a 
maid  entered  with  lights. 

Did  Miss  Trent  know  there  was  a  letter  for  her  in  the 
library  ? 

"  A  letter !"  exclaimed  Rhodope,  with  a  sudden  surge  of 
color,  invisible  in  the  uncertain  light,  that  showed  how  near 
the  surface  was  a  supreme  delight,  in  spite  of  her  misgiv 
ings.  Yes,  it  was  in  the  library,  she  would  fetch  it.  No, 
Miss  Trent  was  going  there  for  a  book ;  she  would  find 
it  for  herself.  The  last  gleams  of  day  made  the  library 
window  a  square  of  dim  and  clouded  light  visible  in  the 
semi-darkness.  The  corners  were  in  deep  shadows,  and 
the  tables  and  chairs  were  vague  dangers  in  otherwise  open 
spaces.  As  Rhodope  opened  the  door — its  being  closed  was 
a  little  unusual — and  stood  in  the  doorway  a  moment,  she 
was  surprised  at  the  darkness  and  wondered  why  there  were 
no  lamps.  Even  the  fire  was  out,  and  the  room  had  a  look 
of  desolation  in  consequence.  She  could  dimly  discern  a 
half-burned  log  in  the  grate,  which  was  just  opposite  the 
unsheltered  window.  She  hesitated  in  doubt  whether  she 
could  find  her  book  and  her  letter  or  not.  Not  till  she  de 
cided  that  she  could  did  she  turn  towards  the  clouded  light 
of  the  library  window.  She  then  saw  against  its  coldly  il 
luminated  panes  the  outline  of  a  man's  figure.  Vaguely 
startled,  in  an  instant  she  recognized  it  as  Charlie  Need- 
ham's,  and  perceived  that  he  had  not  heard  her  enter.  He 
stood  with  his  back  towards  her,  apparently  looking  out,  as 
he  had  stood  that  morning  when  they  had  breakfasted  to 
gether  ;  she  had  hardly  seen  him  since,  and  she  had  an  odd 
sensation  that  he  had  been  standing  so  all  that  time.  His 
hands  were  not  in  his  pockets  now,  however;  one  rested  on 
the  window-sill,  in  the  other  he  held  something  that  she 
did  not  see.  She  stood  still,  with  a  curious,  strained  sort 


WHITE   BIRCHES  303 

of  attention.  She  had  no  impulse  to  speak ;  as  far  as  she 
was  conscious  of  thinking  anything,  she  wondered  what 
he  could  be  looking  at.  The  window  did  not  open  on  the 
street,  but  on  a  little -used  alleyway,  beyond  which  was 
a  high  fence  and  a  new  building  going  up.  It  was  an 
unfinished  -  looking  place,  and  there  was  nothing  to  see 
there,  now  that  the  workmen  had  gone  home.  Suddenly 
Needham  raised  his  right  hand  and  paused  again.  Some 
thing  gleamed  in  the  dying  light  of  the  day — the  silver 
mounting  of  a  pistol.  Rhodope  no  longer  hesitated.  With 
a  swift,  silent  movement  that  seemed  to  place  her  at  Char 
lie  Needham's  side  with  a  single  impulse  of  motion,.she  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  with  a  strength  for  which  he  was, 
of  course,  entirely  unprepared,  brought  his  arm  down,  and 
while  with  a  quick  curse  he  turned  towards  her,  before  he 
could  recover  himself  from  the  startling  interruption  she 
took  the  pistol  from  his  loosened  grasp. 

"  Rhodope  !"  he  exclaimed  in  amazement.  "  I  would  not 
have  said  that  to  you,"  he  added  quickly,  ashamed  of  his 
outbreak. 

"  No,"  she  said,  gravely  regarding  him,  "  I  know  that." 
It  was  as  if  the  trivial,  conventional  aspect  of  the  inci 
dent  were  the  more  important ;  as  if  its  lamentableness  lay 
not  so  much  in  the  fact  that  he  was  going  to  shoot  himself, 
as  in  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  swearing  in  her  presence. 
But  this  very  triviality  marked  an  important  transition.  He 
had  returned  instantaneously  to  normal  conditions.  Had 
he  been  still  confronting  death,  not  even  the  shock  of 
this  interruption  would  have  led  him  into  such  impa 
tience.  There  was  barely  light  enough  for  them  to  see 
one  another's  faces,  as  each  gazed  with  an  intentness  that 
sought  to  read  the  thought  and  purpose  in  the  other's  ex 
pression.  He  was  pale  as  death,  his  eyes  showing  the  nerv 
ous  strain  that  had  brought  him  to  the  wretchedness  of  this 


304  WHITE    BIRCHES 

resolve.  Rhodope's  were  like  stars  in  the  excitement  that 
kept  her  quiet  instead  of  agitating  her.  She  looked  the 
very  incarnation  of  purpose,  calmness,  and  strength. 

"  Why  didn't  you  let  me  do  it  ?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  Because  God  sent  me  to  prevent  you,"  she  said  quietly. 

Five  minutes  earlier  Needham  had  been  resolved  to  take 
the  step  which  should  precipitate  him  into  a  future  which, 
however  far  he  had  slipped  from  his  childhood's  teachings, 
he  could  not  think  of  as  empty  of  a  Power  that  was  God. 
He  had  been  hurrying  to  confront  this  Power,  and  yet,  with 
the  inconsistencies  of  such  natures  and  such  resolves,  this 
calm  reference  to  a  God  who  was  present,  acting,  and  om 
niscient  touched  him  with  a  fear  of  which  he  had  been 
destitute  before. 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  away,"  he  said,  seeking  in  the 
commonplace  an  evasion  of  his  own  feeling.  "  I  did  not 
think  that  you  were  coming  back.  I  thought  I  was  alone." 

"  I  came  back  for  this,"  she  answered. 

He  had  stepped  back  into  the  room,  and  she,  the  pistol 
still  in  her  hand,  went  close  to  the  light,  and  let  the  hammer 
down  softly  and  steadily  with  a  skill  the  result  of  frequent 
practice  with  Jib  and  Uncle  Denver.  The  gravity,  the 
quietness  with  which  she  met  the  situation,  had  an  effect 
which  nothing  else  could  have  had  upon  Needham.  Had 
it  been  a  man  who  had  taken  his  weapon  away  from  him 
and  made  it  less  dangerous,  as  if  he  were  a  child  that  might 
be  permitted  to  look  on  but  not  to  interfere,  it  would  have 
irritated  him  beyond  endurance.  Had  Rhodope  become 
hysterical  and  sought  to  alarm  the  house  as  Florence  might 
have  done,  it  would  in  the  present  state  of  his  brain  and 
nerves  have  confirmed  him  in  his  intentions ;  but  when  it 
was  Rhodope  Trent  who  faced  him  with  this  temperate 
firmness,  he  yielded  with  an  acquiescence  which,  though 
petulant,  was  entire. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  305 

"  Now,"  she  said  gently,  as  she  put  the  pistol  down,  "  will 
you  tell  me  why  you  wanted  to  do  it  ?" 

Needham  threw  himself  into  a  chair  that  stood  near,  and 
put  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"  Because  I  am  ashamed  not  to." 

"  Is  there  nothing  else  that  you  could  find  to  be  ashamed 
of,  that  you  should  think  it  so  poor  a  thing  to  go  on  living  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  You  are  fortunate,"  she  added  softly. 

"  Fortunate  !"  he  burst  out  with  a  short  laugh.  "  How 
little  you  know !  Fortunate  !  It  is  a  long  time  since  that 
word  could  be  applied  to  me !" 

"  And  is  it  a  wise  thing,  when  fortune  slips  away  from  a 
man,  to  throw  deliberately  his  life  and  his  courage  after 
it?" 

Whether  it  was  a  question  or  not,  he  did  not  answer  it. 

"  And  a  man  is  ashamed  not  to  do  it — because — because 
it  is  such  a  fine  thing  to  do  ?" 

Needham  was  amazed  as  well  as  stung.  He  had  never 
fancied  her  capable  of  mercilessness. 

"  Rhodope,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  understand — " 

u  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  do  not  understand. 
It  seems  such  a  pitiful  thing  to  me — always — always  to 
take  the  easy  way." 

"  Whatever  you  believe,"  said  Needham  sullenly,  "  I  beg 
you  to  believe  that  my  way  has  not  been  an  easy  one.  It 
has  been  a  cursed  hard  one,"  he  concluded  stormily. 

"  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  you  found  that  out.  If  it  had 
been  an  easy  one  you  would  have  gone  on — and  on — no 
matter  what  way,  if  it  was  only  easy.  Is  that  it  ?" 

Beneath  her  calmly  questioning  eyes,  whose  glance  he 
felt  rather  than  saw,  the  glow  of  intensity  and  fierce  reck 
lessness  faded  from  the  picture  of  his  folly.  He  grasped 
at  the  old  excuse, "  It  was  the  best  thing  I  could  have  done — 
20 


306  WHITE    BIRCHES 

you  remember  young  Wright,  and  what  everybody  said — 
what  Florence  said.  It  was  the  best  thing  I  could  do,"  he 
repeated  bitterly.  "  Ask  my  wife." 

Rhodope  lifted  the  small  weapon  from  the  table,  looked 
at  it,  and  laid  it  down  again,  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  with  a  little  smile,  "  the  best  thing  you 
could  do — you,  a  grown  man — that  ?  Oh,  no." 

Suddenly  it  appeared  to  him  trivial  too. 

"  It  is  the  only  way  out  of  it,"  he  said. 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  a  way  out  of  it  ?"  objected 
Rhodope. 

Charlie  stared  a  moment. 

"You  mean  they  would  talk.  But  I  should  not  hear 
them." 

"  How  do  you  know  you  would  not  hear  them  ?" 

Needham  paused.  Had  his  carefully  considered  prem 
ises  been  insufficient  ? 

"  Then  it  would  not  be  death,"  he  said. 

"  How  do  you  know  what  death  is  ?"  she  questioned  se 
renely. 

Needham  shuddered — he  had  been  so  near  to  finding  out. 

"  Besides,"  said  Rhodope,  with  a  sweet  pitifulness  that 
softened  the  rebuke,  "  people  who  are  brave  do  not  just 
want  to  get  away  and  not  hear." 

"  That  is  what  people  always  say,"  he  said  sullenly. 
"  Then  I  do  not  claim  to  be  brave." 

"  But  you  admire  those  that  are,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  No  !"  he  exclaimed  savagely.  "  I  don't.  If  people 
seem  brave  it  is  all  the  result  of  accident.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  bearing  hard  things  voluntarily.  Men  do 
things  that  are  called  brave,  because  they  are  forced  to  do 
them,  or  because  they  want  to  have  people  praise  them — 
that  is  what  your  great  men  amount  to — a  crazy  wish  to  be 
talked  about— the  rest  is  all  luck." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  307 

Rhodope  looked  at  him  as  she  might  have  looked  at  a 
child  who  denied  the  alternation  of  day  and  night. 

"  And  that  is  worse  than  being  afraid  of  being  talked 
about  ?"  she  questioned,  going  back  to  his  own  position. 

He  did  not  give  her  an  answer,  although  he  sought  for  one. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  about  the  trouble  ?"  she  said  again. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  sudden  apathy,  "I  will  tell  you." 
He  paused  a  moment.  "  I  am  sick  of  life,"  he  said  with 
the  triteness  of  every-day  fact.  "  I  have  lost  my  money. 
What  is  there  to  do  when  you  have  lost  your  money  ?  It 
is  all  people  care  about  really — how  much  money  you've 
got.  I've  lost  my  money,  and,  what  is  worse,  I've  lost  other 
people's.  I  can't  pay  my  debts.  I  can't  borrow.  Dave- 
nant  pulled  me  out  once.  I'd  look  well  asking  him  to  do 
it  again  !  I  haven't  any  friends — I  know  men  who  will  drink 
with  me.  What  is  the  use  of  living  ?  It  means  disgrace. 
How  is  Florence  going  to  bear  disgrace  ?  If  I'm  out  of  the 
way  people  will  be  sorry  for  her  and  make  much  of  her,  and 
she'll  like  that.  They  may  forget  now  and  then  that  she 
hasn't  any  money.  Anyway,  I  would  not  hear  her  reproach 
me — I'm  sure  of  that,  no  matter  what  you  say." 

He  did  not  realize  how  pitiless  was  his  analysis  of  Flor 
ence's  position,  but  Rhodope  did,  and  shivered  a  little,  for 
she  recognized  its  truth,  and  a  harsh  truth  to  be  faced  is 
a  more  terrible  thing  to  some  temperaments  than  any  num 
ber  of  startling  falsities. 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  good  for  her  any  more  than  for  you," 
she  said  with  her  accustomed  acceptance  of  facts  with 
which  most  people  would  be  inclined  to  temporize. 

"  I've  gotten  past  what  is  good  for  her  or  for  me,"  he 
answered  bitterly. 

It  was  quite  dark  now,  and  he  rose  to  light  the  gas. 
Rhodope  watched  him  as  he  struck  the  match  and,  with 
the  quick  illumination,  brought  the  room  back  from  the 


308  WHITE    BIRCHES 

shadows  that  had  come  so  near  deepening  into  those  of  the 
valley  of  death.  Now  it  was  bright,  unveiled,  common 
place. 

"  I  put  out  the  lights  after  the  maid  had  gone,"  he  said 
in  restless  explanation,  "  and  told  her  I  didn't  want  any  fire. 
I  thought  it  would  give  the  servants  something  to  remember, 
you  know,  after  the — the  catastrophe.  '  The  last  thing  he 
says,  says  he,  "  I  won't  have  no  lights."  '  And  I  should  have 
gone  under  with  the  imputation  of  bad  grammar  after  all — 
* "  I  won't  have  no  lights,"  says  he  ' !" 

The  change  to  the  commonplace  had  had  its  effect  upon 
him.  He  became  uneasily  conscious  of  the  tinge  of  the 
ludicrous  that  is  apt  to  attach  itself  to  the  defeated  suicide, 
and  his  usual  egotism  was  enhanced  by  the  common  Amer 
ican  anxiety  to  be  at  all  hazards  the  first  to  perceive  a  point 
made  against  one's  self.  But  Rhodope  was  not  so  to  be  di 
verted  from  the  solemnities. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  think  what  is  best  for  anybody," 
she  said  seriously.  "  Perhaps  you  don't  believe  there  is  a 
best." 

"  Well,  and  if  I  don't  ?"  he  said,  not  roughly,  but  with  an 
irresistible  yielding  to  the  genuineness  of  her  interest. 

"  Don't  you  honor  a  great  man  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you  that  I  don't  believe  men  are  great,"  he 
answered  moodily.  "Why  should  I  honor  another  man 
whom  nothing  but  circumstances  have  made  appear  greater 
than  I?" 

He  had  said  it.  He  had  struck  the  key-note  of  his  weak, 
variable  character;  one  of  those  characters  to  which  failure 
is  predestined  from  the  beginning,  since  they  will  not  see 
that  half  the  load  they  stagger  under  is  belief  in  the  impos 
sibility  of  true  success. 

"  Have  you  no  enthusiasm  for  people  who  do  brave  things, 
wise  things,  true  things  ?"  she  asked. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  309 

"  Enthusiasm  !"  he  exclaimed  scornfully.  "  There  is  no 
room  for  it." 

It  flashed  across  Rhodope's  mind  with  what  a  difference 
Medcott  had  talked  of  these  same  things  that  night  on  the 
hill  when  he  had  spoken  with  such  freedom  and  such  con 
viction.  This  man  was  complaining  of  the  complications 
and  the  want  of  simplicity,  and  yet  her  creed  was  too  sim 
ple  to  meet  his  difficulties  —  hers  and  Austin  Medcott's. 
Involuntarily  she  glanced  towards  the  mantel  and  saw  her 
letter.  Then  she  turned  again  to  Needham,  but  she  was 
faced  by  the  very  impossibility  Medcott  had  stated  to 
Davenant.  There  was  no  way  of  making  this  deaf  man 
understand.  There  are  vibrations  too  high  in  the  scale  of 
sound  to  reach  the  human  ear,  and  in  the  souls  of  certain 
men  lofty  emotions  wake  no  response.  And  these  men  say 
that  there  are  no  such  emotions.  Verily  they  have  ears  and 
hear  not. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Rhodope  sadly. 

Something  in  the  real  sorrow  of  her  tone  touched  him 
more  nearly  than  anything  she  had  said. 

"  Rhodope,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  know  what  my  life  for  a 
year  has  been.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  have  cheated 
others  and  to  go  right  on  cheating  them.  You  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  have  spent  money  that  does  not  belong  to  you 
— but  that  belongs  to  men  that  are  poorer  than  you  ever 
dreamed  of  being — men  like — "  he  pulled  himself  up  short, 
and  then  burst  out,  "  I  will  tell  you  !  Men  like  Denver 
Trent !  I  say  I  have  ruined  your  Uncle  Denver !  I  have 
ruined  you  !" 

Rhodope,  who  had  risen  to  go  away  before  he  began  to 
speak,  paused  startled.  Ruin  is  a  terrible  word.  It  was 
something  she  had  never  thought  would  come  near  her  or 
hers  with  its  implied  destruction.  Uncle  Denver  ruined ! 
A  picture  of  an  old,  broken,  helpless,  hopeless  man,  who 


310  WHITE    BIRCHES 

should  be  Uncle  Denver  stopped  her  breath  for  an  instant. 
Was  this  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  upon  his  spirit  ? 
Should  she  find  him  thus?  Then  came  the  revulsion. 
Denver  Trent  could  never  be  like  that — never  ! 

"  After  all,  it  is  only  a  matter  of  money,"  she  said. 

Perhaps  none  but  a  person  ignorant  of  many  of  the  im 
portant  facts  of  life  could  have  said  it  with  the  sincerity  of 
her  indifference  ;  one  who  had  never  realized  that  much  of 
the  misery,  the  hopelessness,  the  cheer,  and  the  peaceful- 
ness  of  life  is  only  a  matter  of  money.  But  illogical  as  it 
was,  it  was,  perhaps,  the  one  thing  that  she  could  have  said 
that  would  give  Needham  a  new  courage.  In  imagination 
he  had  been  facing  those  whom  he  had  injured  for  weeks ; 
he  had  fancied  their  reproaches,  their  accusations,  and  their 
despair,  and  had  resolved  to  turn  his  back  on  them.  Now 
he  had  flung  the  truth  at  the  feet  of  one  of  them,  and  she 
had  answered  him  thus.  ^He  did  not  stop  to  remember  that 
she  was  unusually  ignorant ;  she  seemed  to  him  unusually 
wise,  and  she  had  assured  him  that  he  had  not  bereft  her  of 
everything.  Perhaps  it  was  not  so  irreparable  as  he  fancied. 
Perhaps  he  had  not  lost  his  grip,  after  all.  He  looked  at  her 
in  a  wonder  that  was  nearer  the  admiration  of  which  he  pro 
fessed  to  be  destitute  than  he  knew,  as,  without  further 
speech,  she  crossed  the  room  and  picked  up  her  letter.  At 
that  instant  the  door  opened,  and  Florence  stood  on  the 
threshold.  She  wore  a  long  carriage  wrap  trimmed  with 
silver  fox,  her  cheeks  were  reddened  by  the  outside  air,  her 
eyes  had  the  hard  brightness  that  belonged  to  them. 

"  They  told  me  you  had  come,  Rhodope,"  she  said.  "  A 
telegram  ?  Is  any  one  ill  ?"  She  came  into  the  room  as  she 
spoke,  and  put  her  small  foot  on  the  fender.  "  Why  is  there 
no  fire  ?"  she  exclaimed,  without  waiting  for  an  answer.  She 
had  barely  looked  at  her  husband,  who,  after  a  single  glance 
at  her,  let  his  head  fall  on  his  hands  again  in  sullen  indif 
ference. 


WHITE   BIRCHES  311 

"  I  do  not  think  any  one  is  ill,"  said  Rhodope  slowly. 
"  But  I  must  go  home  to-morrow." 

Something  not  quite  natural  in  her  voice  made  Florence 
pause  with  her  hand  on  the  bell  she  had  moved  aside  to 
ring,  and  she  scanned  her  keenly  and  then  turned  towards 
her  husband.  His  attitude  and  silence  deepened  the  im 
pression. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  two  ?"  she  demanded. 
"What  has  happened?"  Needham  did  not  answer. 

"  It  did  not  happen,"  said  Rhodope  hastily.  "  Nothing 
has  happened." 

"  It  came  deuced  near  it,  though,"  said  Charlie,  whose 
worse  nature  was  apt  to  come  forward  at  his  wife's  touch. 

"  What  came  near  happening  ?"  and  Florence  left  the 
bell  and  came  to  the  centre  of  the  room.  "  Will  you  be 
good  enough  to  explain  yourself  with  a  little  more  ac 
curacy  ?" 

Rhodope,  seeing  that  an  explanation  was  coming, 
through  Florence's  awakened  curiosity  and  Needham's 
recklessness,  went  quickly  towards  the  door. 

"  Wait,  Rhodope  !"  said  Florence  imperiously. 

"  Miss  Trent  found  me  amusing  myself  with  that  play 
thing,"  and  Needham  pointed  to  the  table. 

Florence  looked  down  and  recoiled  with  the  common  in 
stinct  of  women. 

"  What !"  she  screamed.  She  did  not  need  further  ex 
planation.  Davenant's  warning  recurred  to  her. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  rapidly,  as  if  anxious  now  to  get  it 
over,  "  I  had  conceived  the  somewhat  played-out  project 
of  blowing  my  brains  out." 

With  a  hysterical  cry  Florence  threw  herself  down  on  a 
sofa. 

"  Oh,  Charlie,  how  could  you  !"  she  wailed.  "  How  could 
you !  Oh  !"  and  she  caught  her  breath  in  long  sobs. 


312  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  And  to-night  of  all  nights !  When  we  are  going  to  the 
Rimmon  dinner-party." 

Charlie  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  The  Rimmon  dinner-party  be — "  he  began  savagely. 
Then  he  paused,  half  shamed  by  the  nearness  of  the  crisis 
through  which  he  had  passed,  half  silenced  by  the  sight 
of  Florence,  in  her  rich  dress,  her  flushed  beauty,  and  her 
abject  distress— and  Rhodope  slipped  from  the  room  as  he 
waited.  Miserably  inadequate  as  was  Florence's  grief,  it 
was  actual  grief,  and  such  as  she  was  in  her  beauty,  her 
folly,  and  her  shortcomings — indeed,  for  these  very  things — 
he  had  loved  her ;  she  was  the  woman  he  had  promised  to 
make  happy. 

"  Oh,  Lord  !"  he  exclaimed,  wearily  and  not  altogether 
profanely.  "  Let  it  be  the  success  it  ought  to  be,  and  we'll 
go  to  it  and  be  happy  ever  after.  Come,  Florence,  stop 
crying.  I  won't  shoot  myself  again  before  dinner-time, 
anyhow." 

Florence  pulled  herself  together,  and  looked  at  him,  still 
fiercely  gripping  the  sofa  pillow  in  which  she  had  buried 
her  face,  and  fetching  short,  gasping  breaths. 

"  How  did  you  happen  not  to  do  it  this  time  ?"  she  asked 
nervously. 

"  Rhodope  Trent  stopped  me." 

"  Rhodope  Trent !  "  Her  accent  was  little  less  than 
furious. 

"  You  seem  grateful,"  remarked  Needham  dryly. 

"  I  owe  Rhodope  Trent  more  than  I  can  ever  repay," 
said  Florence,  with  a  violence  that  told  its  own  story. 

"  So  do  I,  unfortunately,"  he  rejoined  with  a  short  laugh. 

He  was  more  angry  at  his  wife's  feeling  towards  Rhod 
ope  than  he  had  been  at  her  want  of  it  towards  himself. 

"  A  good  deal  more.  Though  I  mean  to  pay  some  of  it 
if  I  live,"  he  added  between  his  teeth. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  313 

"  What  do  you  owe  her  ?"  demanded  Florence,  feeling 
there  was  something  still  unsaid. 

"  Money,"  he  answered  laconically. 

"  Money !" 

"  Yes,  or  I  owe  it  to  Denver  Trent — it's  the  same  thing. 
He  gave  me  money  to  invest  and  I've  spent  it — that's  all." 

It  seemed  as  if  Charlie  was  bound  to  overwhelm  her  with 
a  sense  of  his  iniquities,  if  he  could  not  with  that  of  his 
unhappiness. 

"  I'm  going  to  dress  now,"  he  concluded,  walking  towards 
the  door,  "  for  the  Rimmon  dinner." 

Florence's  cup  was  running  over.  The  Fates  had  united 
to  besiege  her  ears  with  the  name  of  Rhodope  Trent.  Was 
it  not  enough  to  have  robbed  her  of  Medcott's  devotion  ? 
To  have  fascinated  the  man  who  had  once  been  all  hers? 
To  have  made  her  the  unwilling  victim  of  a  lurking  sense 
of  inferiority?  Must  she  snatch  back  her  husband  from 
the  gate  of  death,  and  did  she  owe  it  to  her  presence  that 
she  should  sit  that  night  among  the  few  who  were  chosen 
for  the  Rimmon  dinner  ?  The  money  question  sank  into 
insignificance  save  as  a  weapon. 

Rhodope  was  sitting  in  her  room  with  Medcott's  letter 
before  her.  After  the  scene  through  which  she  had  just 
passed,  and  which  had  been  more  agitating  than  she  had 
realized,  it  overpowered  her.  It  was  infused  with  that 
sense  of  personality  that  strong  emotion  sometimes  lends 
to  even  written  words.  It  was  as  if  he  leaned  over  her 
while  she  read,  and  took  her  hand  and  made  her  listen  to 
him.  She  felt,  with  a  thrill  of  pride,  the  contrast  between 
his  nature  and  aims— and  that  discontented,  pettish,  aim 
less  individuality  with  which  she  had  just  been  brought  in 
contact,  and  which  even  tragedy  failed  to  dignify.  Now  as 
ever  there  was  no  doubt  of  her  love  for  him.  It  had  become 
the  strong  force  of  her  life,  but  it  had  been  checked  and 


314  WHITE    BIRCHES 

thwarted  in  what  might  have  been  its  even  flow,  by  mis 
understanding  and  apprehension,  until  she  distrusted  its 
power  to  carry  her  on  with  it  to  a  sea  of  happiness.  While 
for  him — what  if  his  letter  did  read  as  if  there  was  but  one 
thing  that  was  best  for  him  ?  Could  she  make  him  happy, 
not  at  the  cost  of  suffering — she  would  not  have  minded 
that— but  at  the  cost  of  the  sacrifice  of  what  was  the  very 
warp  and  woof  of  her  nature,  not  because  he  would  demand 
it,  but  because  his  life  would  demand  it  ?  It  was  a  strange, 
questioning  mood  for  a  girl  to  be  in  while  reading  her  first 
love-letter,  but  it  was  the  not  unnatural  result  of  the  many 
forces  which  had  been  at  work,  the  vague  anxiety  concerning 
Uncle  Denver's  telegram  and  the  afternoon's  discovery  of  the 
mockery  of  what  had  been  outwardly  so  fair.  And  yet — blind 
ed  by  the  possibilities  of  what  might  be — Rhodope  threw  her 
head  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  There  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  without  waiting  for  a  response  Florence  came  in 
and  walked  quickly  across  the  room  to  where  she  sat.  There 
was  a  suggestion,  in  the  swift  gracefulness  of  her  approach, 
of  preparation  for  a  hostile  spring,  which  was  increased  as 
she  paused  suddenly,  still  wearing  her  long  velvet,  fur-trim 
med  wrap,  before  the  girl  who  had  raised  her  head  and 
waited.  Florence's  face  bore  the  traces  of  her  recent 
burst  of  hysterical  grief.  The  elegance  of  her  dress  was  at 
variance  with  the  stormy  flush  of  her  cheeks  and  the  tear- 
stains  about  her  eyes.  But  her  voice  was  unsoftened. 

"  You  have  been  treated  to  melodrama  this  afternoon,  I 
hear."  Rhodope  knew  that  she  was  hard,  but  this  cynicism 
shocked  her.  "  But  the  melodrama  seems  to  have  turned 
out  almost,  if  not  quite,  a  farce."  Rhodope  remembered 
Charlie's  face  as  he  sat  with  his  head  on  his  hands.  Had 
this  woman  really  no  heart  at  all  ? 

"  Don't  say  that !"  she  exclaimed,  "  a  farce  is  something 
we  laugh  at !" 


WHITE    BIRCHES  315 

"  A  farce  is  something  that  turns  on  other  people's  ab 
surd  mistakes,"  declared  Florence.  "  Charlie  has  made 
several.  Possibly  even  you  have  not  been  exempt " — she 
paused  to  make  what  she  meant  to  say  more  effective. 

"  I  have  made  a  great  many,"  said  Rhodope.  "  Perhaps 
I  made  one  in  coming  here,"  she  added  unconsciously,  in  a 
half-whisper. 

"  Possibly  that  was  one,"  Florence  admitted  calmly. 
"  Another  may  have  concerned  Austin  Medcott.  This 
afternoon  has  at  least  revealed  the  secret  of  his  alleged 
fondness  for  you  !" 

Rhodope  shrank  from  the  cruelty  of  her  choice  of  words. 

"  Tom  Davenant  knows,  and  of  course  Mr.  Medcott 
knows,  that  Charlie  spent  Denver  Trent's  money.  That 
means  that  you  may  be  at  any  time  without  support.  It  puts 
a  different  face  on  a  flirtation,  for  an  honorable  man." 

The  inspiration  which  seldom  fails  to  come  when  we  are 
resolved  to  do  our  worst  was  standing  Florence  in  good 
stead. 

"  It  is  astounding  what  pity  will  do  with  the  artistic 
temperament,"  she  paused  to  laugh,  not  quite  naturally.  "  It 
disposes  it  to  undreamed-of  chivalry  in  the  case  of  a  good- 
looking  woman.  Has  Austin  Medcott  been  asking  you 
to  marry  him,  my  dear  ?" 

Perhaps  only  the  insolence  of  the  last  words  would  have 
roused  Rhodope  to  reply.  She  was  so  hurt  that  she  had 
no  wish  to  retaliate,  only  a  longing  that  her  enemy  might 
feel  that  she  had  dealt  blows  enough.  Moreover,  it  is  the 
prerogative  of  such  violence  as  Mrs.  Needham's  to  silence  a 
gentler  nature.  But  as  Florence  waited  for  an  answer  with 
what  she  meant  for  a  smile,  but  which  was  a  half-hysterical 
distortion  of  her  lips,  Rhodope  spoke.  The  fire-light  was 
dancing  across  their  faces  with  an  air  of  light-heartedness 
that  contradicted  their  expression.  Rhodope's  pure  profile 


316  WHITE    BIRCHES 

threw  flickering  shadows  on  the  opposite  wall,  where  Flor 
ence's  figure  lost  its  daintiness  and  became  grotesque. 

"  I  cannot  answer  you,"  her  voice  was  low  and  unbroken, 
"for  you  do  not  understand  Mr.  Medcott  or  me.  We 
speak  the  truth." 

"  You  will  wish  some  time  that  I  had  not  spoken  the 
truth,"  Florence  said  shortly. 

"  No,"  said  Rhodope  gently,  "  I  shall  never  wish  that." 
She  moved  nearer  Florence,  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of 
her.  "  Would  it  not  have  been  better,"  she  asked,  "  to  have 
had  more  truth  from  the  first?  Would  it  not  have  been 
better  to  have  let  me  have  my  letter  when  it  came  ?" 

Florence  shrugged  her  shoulders  without  speaking. 

"  He  spoke  to  me  that  day  we  met  in  the  street — the  day 
after  your  reception,"  went  on  Rhodope. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?"  asked  Florence  contemptuously. 
"  The  sort  of  thing  that  a  man  says  to  a  pretty  woman 
when  he  is  sorry  for  her  ?" 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you  what  he  said,"  returned  Rhodope 
gravely,  "  but  they  were  not  the  things  that  he  says  to  you." 
She  did  not  know  it  was  a  thrust,  but  Florence  paled  under 
its  truth.  "  Perhaps  you  are  right,  perhaps  he  was  sorry 
for  me.  But  at  least  he  wrote.  And  I  have  not  known 
that  he  had  written.  I  wondered  why,"  she  said  simply. 
11  But  I  soon  thought  that  he  was  leaving  me  to  think  it 
over." 

"  He  was  thinking  it  over  himself,"  sneered  Florence. 
"  Even  an  artist  may  know  when  he  is  quixotic." 

"  I  am  telling  you  about  it,"  said  Rhodope  calmly,  her 
eyes  on  Florence,  who  let  hers  fall  unwillingly  before  them, 
"  in  order  that  we  may  have  truth  now,  at  least.  I  have 
thought  it  over,"  she  went  on,  "  and  I  had  grown  to  think 
that  his  life  was  really  very  far  apart  from  mine,  that  what 
seemed  to  me  a  great  thing — his  love  for  me  " — Florence 


WHITE    BIRCHES  317 

looked  at  her,  astonished  by  the  fearlessness  of  her  words — 
"was  not  a  great  thing  to  him — that  like  so  many  other 
things,  I  had  not  understood.  But  now  I  have  his  letter. 
He  had  written,  and  while  I  was  wondering,  he  was  won 
dering  too.  I  think  it  would  have  been  better  to  let  me 
have  it." 

Nothing  could  have  silenced  Florence  like  this  utter 
frankness,  it  was  so  foreign  to  her  own  nature.  But  she 
saw  her  way  now  to  emphasize  her  suggestion. 

"  And  do  you  not  see,"  she  exclaimed,  ignoring  Rhod- 
ope's  question,  "that  he,  too,  knows  that  you  are  far  apart? 
that  you  look  at  things  differently  ?  that  you  never  could 
make  him  happy  ?  You  are  not  a  stupid  woman,  Rhodope, 
with  all  your  refinements  about  truth  and  Heaven  knows 
what  all !" — and  she  laughed  with  the  scorn  she  felt — "  and 
you  must  know  that  but  one  thing  could  bring  Austin  Med- 
cott  to  such  a  foolish  step — the  knowledge  that  you  loved 
him  and  that  you  have  become  dependent." 

Rhodope's  hands  clasped  each  other  more  tightly  under 
the  lash  of  the  words.  She  walked  over  to  the  fire — the 
fire  that  made  her  think  of  home — and  looked  down  into  it. 
Florence  stood  watching  her,  playing  with  an  end  of  her  fur 
trimming,  her  lips  set  in  harsh  lines. 

"  Uncle  Denver  said,  Mrs.  Needham,"  Rhodope  raised 
her  eyes  and  met  hers  as  she  spoke,  "  that  whatever  you 
wanted  from  my  being  here  you  would  certainly  gain  it." 
It  did  not  soothe  Florence  to  know  that  Denver  Trent  had 
a  not  incorrect  idea  of  her  character.  "  I  would  like  to 
know  that  you  have  it.  I  would  like  to  go  away  thinking 
that  it  has  not  all  been  a  mistake.  Have  you  gained  it, 
whatever  it  may  be  ?" 

In  Florence's  angry  consciousness  Rhodope  was  driving 
her  to  a  confession  of  failure.  She  entirely  lost  the  pathos 
of  the  half-indignant,  wholly  sad,  question. 


318  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  What  could  you  do  for  me  !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  wanted 
nothing  of  you.  I  have  not  failed  in  anything.  But,"  and 
she  turned  towards  the  door,  "  do  not  be  too  sure  that  you 
have  succeeded." 

It  was  with  a  certain  sense  of  defeat  that  she  closed  the 
door ;  but  she  might,  nevertheless,  have  revelled  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  one  who  has  fought  a  good  fight.  Her  blows 
had  told.  Without  shedding  a  tear,  Rhodope  sank  into  her 
chair  and  closed  her  eyes  again,  utterly  weary.  As  a  beau 
tiful  dream  suddenly  changes  into  a  strange  something  that 
frightens  and  oppresses  us,  so  other  doubts,  other  thoughts, 
intruded  unaccountably,  and  were  imposed  upon  what  had 
been  a  dream  of  love.  She  opened  her  eyes  after  a  while 
and  looked  about  her.  Her  trunks  stood  ready  for  departure, 
the  room  looked  strange  and  inhospitable.  What  had  she 
done  to  this  world,  into  which  she  had  gladly  come,  that  it 
treated  her  so  as  she  was  going  away  from  it  alone  ?  What 
had  she  done  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

"'Tis  a  kind  of  good  deed  to  say  well." 

"Oh,  sing  them  back,  as  fresh  as  ever: 
The  sunshine  and  the  merriment, 
The  unsought,  evergreen  content, 

Of  that  never  cold  time  ; 
The  joy  that  like  a  clear  breeze  went 

Through  and  through  the  old  time." 

"  These  two  shall  have  their  joy." 

THE  Rimmon  dinner  was  distinguished,  as  usual,  for  that 
union  of  the  elegant,  the  stately,  the  depressing,  and  the 
superfluous  that  makes  a  Rimmon  dinner  the  Mecca  of  so 
cial  pilgrims. 

By  the  wise  ordering  of  an  all  -  comprehending  Provi 
dence,  the  sense  of  elation  that  filled  the  rightly  constituted 
heart  at  the  realization  of  its  owner's  privileges  in  thus  sit 
ting  at  meat  with  a  ruler,  made  up  for  the  lack  of  less  sub 
jective  enjoyment,  and  established  an  equilibrium  as  grati 
fying  to  most  of  the  guests  as  to  the  imperturbable  soul  of 
Mrs.  Rimmon  herself.  But  into  even  this  empyrean  circle 
unregenerate  impulses  made  their  way,  and  among  its  mem 
bers  was  at  least  one  exception  to  the  rule  of  perfect  satis 
faction.  It  was  that  of  Medcott's  mother,  who,  while  he 
was  expressing  a  wish  for  her  presence,  had  unexpectedly 
cut  short  her  visit  at  the  German  baths  and  was  on  her  way 
home,  and  made  on  this  occasion  her  first  reappearance  in 
New  York  society. 

"  I  am  growing  Bohemian,"  she  sighed  inwardly,  as  she 


320  WHITE    BIRCHES 

turned  her  intellectual  face  to  the  man  on  her  right,  who 
was  giving  her  a  spirited  account  of  something— just  what, 
she  had  not  heard — after  a  lapse  into  actual,  if  unmarked, 
inattention. 

"These  short  and  frequent  trips  to  the  other  side,  with 
their  irresponsibility,  are  the  unmaking  of  me.  By  all  the 
traditions  of  my  bringing  up  I  ought  to  be  permeated  with 
happiness,  and  I'm  not.  Yes,"  she  said  aloud,  with  that 
attentiveness  which  made  her  so  charming  to  even  younger 
men,  "  no  wonder  you  were  interested.  As  you  have  said, 
it  is  in  exhibitions  of  that  kind  that  the  future  tastes,  and 
really  the  safety,  of  the  present  generation  lie." 

She  watched  him  with  feminine  readiness  to  take  back  or 
to  alter  any  of  her  words  in  case  they  proved  to  be  sadly 
inappropriate,  for  her  idea  was  of  the  vaguest  concerning 
what  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  line  of  Art,  compli 
cated  by  technical  terms.  The  stout  and  sanguine  gentle 
man,  who  had  been  telling  of  a  recent  athletic  exhibition, 
was  confirmed  in  his  impression  of  her  extreme  intelligence. 

"  So  I  say,  so  I  say,"  he  responded.  Mrs.  Medcott  was 
a  fine -looking  woman,  of  that  distinguished  appearance 
which  white  hair,  a  youthful  face,  and  dark  eyes  go  far  to 
establish.  She  had  to  perfection  that  art  of  being  mistress 
of  the  situation,  without  undue  insistence  on  it,  which  some 
women  never  learn  even  after  long  experience.  She  knew  her 
world  thoroughly,  but  that  was  not  all  she  knew.  She  had 
looked  over  into  other  people's  ;  and  though,  in  the  long  run, 
she  preferred  her  own,  she  was  not  ignorant  that  there  were 
certain  others,  inhabited  by  rational  beings.  Of  decided 
views,  she  had  the  fine  tolerance  which,  in  its  perfection,  is 
the  result  only  of  wide  experience  and  a  keen  intelligence. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  so  outrageously  absent-minded  if  it  were 
not  for  this  business  of  Austin's,"  she  went  on  in  an  under 
current  of  thought  that  did  not  seriously  interfere  with  the 


WHITE    BIRCHES  321 

duties  of  the  hour.  "  But  to  come  home  to  find  that  one's 
only  son  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  milkmaid  is  enough  to 
call  out  one's  worst  traits.  If  Bertha  doesn't  get  me  away 
early  I  shall  acknowledge  to  myself  that  I  am  bored.  Af 
ter  that  I  might  as  well  give  up,  of  course.  To  admit  that 
one  is  bored  at  a  dinner  like  this  is  social  burial.  Of  course 
she  isn't  a  milkmaid,  by  the  way.  I  never  saw  a  milkmaid 
in  my  life,  and  I  don't  believe  Austin  ever  did.  I  know 
nothing  about  them  except  that  they  get  up  very  early  with 
three-legged  stools.  But  I  have  an  idea  Violet  Harrow 
didn't  write  me  the  worst,  after  all.  She  is  something  ter 
rible,  of  course.  And  I  was  so  sure  of  Austin's  taste.  I've 
always  said  that  Bertha  would  be  saved  by  her  sense  of 
duty  and  Austin  by  his  taste.  It  shows  the  uncertainties 
of  even  religious  convictions.  Bertha  will  make  up  her 
mind  to  this  because  it  is  her  duty,  and  because  earthly  ad 
vantages  are  really  nothing.  And  I  shall  never  make  up 
my  mind  to  it  because  Austin  gets  his  taste  from  me,  and  I 
know  earthly  advantages  are  a  great  deal.  Oh,  indeed  it 
is,"  she  observed  to  her  neighbor  on  the  other  side,  who 
had  sprung  suddenly  into  prominence  in  the  scientific  line, 
and  whose  views  had  not  yet  been  tempered  by  the  chasten 
ing  atmosphere  in  which  he  found  himself.  He  had  been 
asked  because  the  Englishman  had  expressed  a  wish  to 
meet  him,  thereby  causing  Mrs.  Rimmon  a  bad  quarter  of 
an  hour's  speculation  concerning  his  possibilities.  "  Indeed 
it  is.  It  develops  one  mentally,  this  living  in  a  country 
where  eminence  is  the  direct  result  of  real  force.  What 
could  America  do  with  artificial  standards  ?" 

As  the  scientist,  charmed  by  the  insight  of  one  who  had  at 
first  appeared  to  him  merely  the  unexceptionable  woman  of 
fashion,  was  led  to  enlarge  upon  the  benefit  Of  democratic 
institutions,  Mrs.  Medcott  went  on  with  her  reflections. 

"  How  easy  it  is  to  make  nonsense  sound  like  sense," 
21 


322  WHITE    BIRCHES 

she  thought,  as  she  observed  the  avidity  with  which  her  re 
mark  had  been  seized  upon.  "  Austin  would  say  that  wasn't 
nonsense,  after  all.  I  don't  see  how  he  keeps  that  faith  in 
the  promises  of  life  when  he  goes  to  places  like  this.  I 
have  a  fancy  he  doesn't  go  any  oftener  than  he  can  help. 
I'd  like  to  have  him  see  that  pretty  piece  of  completeness 
talking  to  the  titled  Englishman.  Her  conception  of  repub 
lican  ideals  is  that  of  being  sufficiently  elevated  to  look  up 
to  a  lord.  By  the  way,  it  just  occurs  to  me  that  that  is  a 
Mrs.  Needham,  and  that  Austin  mentioned  a  Mrs.  Needham 
as  the  person  responsible  for  the  social  introduction  of  the 
milkmaid.  I've  an  idea  I've  heard  who  she  is,  or  was,  or 
something.  Bertha  will  know.  It  might  be  well  to  burn  a 
sort  of  noncommittal  incense  to  the  guardian  angel.  I'll 
make  Bertha  find  out  for  me  after  dinner.  Tom  Davenant 
would  know,  but  I  can't  get  hold  of  him  in  time." 

Mrs.  Rimmon — who  even  in  her  own  house  produced 
something  of  the  solemn  effect  of  Buddha,  and  who  was 
accustomed  to  have  her  proceedings  waited  upon  with  the 
same  earnest  watchfulness,  as  possible  manifestations  of 
divinity — had  gathered  her  guests  in  the  drawing-room.  It 
was  just  after  their  entrance  that  Mrs.  Medcott  had  found 
an  opportunity  to  say  to  her  daughter, 

"  Bertha,  find  out  if  that  woman  is  a  Mrs.  Needham,  and 
if  Mrs.  Needham  isn't  the  woman — " 

"  She  is,  mamma."  Bertha  spoke  with  her  enlightening 
manner ;  she  was  accustomed  to  interrupt  her  mother  when 
necessary,  and  at  present  their  interview  must  be  short. 
She  was  a  girl  of  a  good  deal  of  immobile  beauty,  which 
announced  its  own  inability  to  charm  at  the  same  time  that 
it  asserted  its  claim  to  respect.  "  She  is  a  Mrs.  Needham, 
and  she  has  a  Miss  Trent  staying  with  her.  She  was  a  Miss 
Evans,  and  Tom  Davenant  was  at  one  time  engaged  to  her. 
I  mean  to  speak  to  her  about  Miss  Trent." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  323 

"  Your  memory  for  names  and  your  principles  are  as  ad 
mirable  as  ever,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Medcott,  "  and  I  have 
fallen  into  a  way  of  depending  upon  both  instead  of  my 
own ;  but  I  think  this  time  you  had  better  let  me  speak  to 
her  rather  than  do  it  yourself." 

"Very  well,  mamma,"  replied  Bertha,  who  had  long  ago 
recognized  in  her  mother  a  certain  felicity  which  she  her 
self  lacked.  Bertha's  memory  for  names  was  undoubtedly 
excellent,  but  possibly  if  it  had  been  a  less  reliable  one  she 
would  not  have  found  it  difficult  to  recall  the  name  of  the 
woman  to  whom  Tom  Davenant  had  once  been  engaged. 

It  could  not  perhaps  be  asserted  that  Florence  had  thor 
oughly  enjoyed  the  dinner,  but  then  the  sense  of  repose  in 
separable  from  absolute  enjoyment  is  impossible  upon  a 
dizzy  pinnacle.  But  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  enjoying 
it,  which,  though  less  gratifying  to  the  natural  man,  is  of  a 
loftier  and  more  securely  founded  order  of  experience.  As 
Mrs.  Medcott  had  divined,  her  republican  simplicity  looked 
no  further  into  the  claims  of  her  English  neighbor  to  distin 
guished  consideration  than  that  of  his  title.  And  though 
to  the  ordinary  observer  this  one  talent  seemed,  from  its 
barrenness,  in  danger  of  being  buried  in  a  napkin,  she  felt 
that  he  was  in  the  position  of  the  man  to  whom  had  been 
committed  fifty,  and  who  might  be  expected  at  any  time  to 
bring  in  fourfold.  She  did  not  allow  herself  to  be  dis 
tracted  from  the  matter  in  hand  even  by  the  sight  of  Dave 
nant,  who,  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  statement  that  in 
vain  is  the  net  spread  in  sight  of  any  bird,  was  listening  re 
signedly  to  a  favorite  bit  of  one  of  Mrs.  Eunam's  "  Neglected 
Authors."  Only  now  and  then,  as  she  had  glanced  down 
the  table  at  Charlie,  with  his  pale  face,  nervous  frame,  and 
irreproachable  evening-dress,  a  slight  sense  of  giddiness  op 
pressed  her  as  she  began  to  realize  that  the  solid  earth  might 
"fail  beneath  her  feet."  And  once  or  twice  her  nerves 


324  WHITE    BIRCHES 

thrilled  with  a  sudden  rush  of  hatred  of  Rhodope.  It  was 
not  without  a  sensation  of  satisfaction  that  she  was  pre 
sented,  after  dinner,  to  Mrs.  Medcott.  She  had  made  all 
her  life  that  grievous  mistake  of  not  recognizing  a  difference 
in  the  point  of  view ;  in  this  instance  it  had  led  her  into 
considering  Mrs.  Medcott's  interest  as  another  tribute  to 
the  secure  exaltation  of  her  present  social  position. 

"  It  is  with  you,  I  think,  that  Miss  Trent  is  staying,"  said 
Mrs.  Medcott  quite  naturally,  after  the  exchange  of  a  few 
preliminaries.  "  My  son  wished  me  to  call  upon  her.  I 
think  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  you  both  last  summer — when  I  was  stupid  enough  to 
be  ill  and  break  off  his  holiday — was  he  not?" 

Florence  was  fanning  herself  slowly  with  a  superb  fan ; 
the  thick  plumes  quivered  a  little  in  her  hands  as  she  an 
swered. 

"  Under  the  same  roof  with  me  ?"  she  laughed.  "  Under 
no  roof  at  all,  most  of  the  time,  with  Miss  Trent.  They 
were  both  famous  for  out-of-door  expeditions." 

Mrs.  Medcott's  ear  was  too  keen  to  miss  the  harsh  note. 

"  Austin  has  contrived  to  put  her  on  the  other  side,"  she 
thought. 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,"  she  said  with  a  smile  that  threat 
ened  to  belie  the  words,  "  and  Austin  ought  to  think  of  it. 
When  he  talked  to  me  of  Mrs.  Needham,  I  did  not  remem 
ber  that  she  was  once  the  Miss  Evans  whom  people  were 
not  expected  to  forget."  The  manner,  the  smile,  seemed 
to  make  it  in  this  case  a  flattering  thing  to  have  been  for 
gotten. 

"  I  am  surprised  that  Mr.  Medcott  should  have  mentioned 
me  at  all,"  Florence  said  with  an  affectation  of  indifference. 
However  gratified  by  his  mother's  graciousness,  she  could 
not  help  showing  her  pique  at  the  son's  shortcomings. 

"  Austin  knows  my  taste  for  personalities,"  smiled  Mrs. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  325 

Medcott.  "  He  knows  that  nothing  entertains  me  like  hear 
ing  of  his  friends.  Is  Miss  Trent  still  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  she  is  still  with  me."  Florence  recognized  that 
an  opportunity  to  revenge  herself  might  be  at  hand.  "  But 
she  goes  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?     I  am  sorry." 

At  this  moment  the  titled  Englishman  drew  near  to  be 
presented  to  Mrs.  Medcott,  who  knew  "  some  of  his  people 
at  home."  It  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  importance 
attached  to  this  latter  fact  both  by  the  Englishman  and 
Mrs.  Needham. 

"  I  am  at  home  on  Thursday,"  said  Mrs.  Medcott  before 
she  turned  away.  "  Perhaps  you  will  let  me  make  your  ac 
quaintance  even  if  I  am  cut  off  from  Miss  Trent's." 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  there  is  an  infusion  of  the  mam 
mon  of  unrighteousness  in  that  young  woman  whicli  it  will 
be  well  to  make  a  friend  of,"  she  remarked  to  Bertha  as 
they  drove  home  that  night.  Her  mother's  forms  of  expres 
sion  often  struck  Bertha  as  exaggerated. 

"  She  wore  a  pretty  gown,"  she  observed  with  literalness. 

"  It  was  an  irreproachable  gown.  Another  testimony  to 
her  being  a  dangerous  woman." 

"  Tom  Davenant  was  said  to  be  very  much  in  love  with 
her,"  said  Bertha  thoughtfully.  She  found  no  difficulty  in 
discussing  the  subject.  Davenant  was  the  only  man  except 
her  brother  and  two  cousins  that  Bertha  called  by  his  Chris 
tian  name. 

"  Tom  Davenant  is  too  clever*to  have  been  in  love  with 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Medcott  promptly.  "  He  may  have  been 
in  love  with  his  idea  of  her." 

"  How  did  you  make  a  friend  of  her?"  asked  Bertha. 

"A  friend  of  her!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Medcott.  "My  dear 
child,  I  wish  you  would  be  more  careful  of  your  expres- 


326  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  You  said  it  would  be  well " — began  poor  Bertha. 

"  Oh,  well — Bertha,  you  have  a  terrible  way  of  telling 
people  what  they  said,"  interrupted  her  mother  impatiently. 
"  I  may  make  myself  a  friend  of  the  mammon  of  unright 
eousness,  but  I  am  not  yet  hardened  enough  to  call  it 
friendship." 

"  Are  you  going  to  call  on  her  ?" 

"  No,  the  rare  bird  flies  to-morrow.  But  she  is  coming 
to  see  us  on  Thursday.  Then  I  shall  find  out  all  she  can 
tell  me — more  than  she  means  to." 

"  I  was  thinking—"  began  Bertha,  thoughtfully  still — 
"  then  she  won't  wait  for  us  to  call  on  her  ?"  To  Bertha 
questions  of  this  sort  formed  a  large  and  legitimate  interest 
in  life. 

"No,  my  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Medcott  with  conviction. 
"  She  won't  think  it  worth  while." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Needham  to  her  husband  that 
night,  "  when  the  world  is  to  know  the  result  of  these  finan 
cial  operations  of  yours?"  She  spoke  with  a  chilling  into 
nation  that  was  the  immediate  result  of  her  contemplation 
of  her  position  in  Davenant's  eyes,  on  her  way  home  in  the 
carriage.  Needham  had  admitted,  during  their  stormy  in 
terview  of  the  afternoon,  that  Davenant  had  helped  him. 
To  be  a  pensioner  of  Tom  Davenant !  It  was  too  much. 

"  The  world,  as  you  call  it,  will  probably  know  it  in  about 
a  week." 

Charlie  threw  himself  down  in  an  easy-chair,  lit  a  cigar 
ette,  and  scrutinized  with  contemptuous  irony  the  luxurious 
fittings  of  the  room,  and  finally  the  exquisite  ^costume  of 
Florence  herself  as  she  stood  before  him.  She  saw  what 
he  meant  to  convey  by  this  silent  examination. 

"  And  they  will  say  your  wife  ruined  you,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know — perhaps."  He  was  tired  out  mentally 
and  physically.  The  dinner  had  bored  him  intensely. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  327 

"  They  will  forget  what  I  have  done  for  you,"  she  said 
angrily. 

"  They  may." 

"  Does  it  mean  that  we  shall  have  no  more  money  ?" 

"  Not  enough  to  get  you  gowns  like  that." 

Florence  moved  and  stood  more  directly  in  front  of  him. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  universe  was  threatened. 
She  heard  the  solar  system,  as  it  were,  clattering  about  her 
ears. 

"  People  fail,"  she  said,  "  or  are  bankrupt,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  and  have  money  left.  They  go  on.  Can't  you 
do  that  ?  Isn't  there  some  money — somewhere — that  you 
can  get — can  take  ?" 

Needham  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  admiration. 

"  I've  taken  it,"  he  said  half  to  himself,  "  I've  done  the 
very  thing.  But  somehow  I  never  had  the  coolness  to  say 
it  to  myself  like  that." 

She  did  not  heed  his  comment. 

"  Isn't  there  ?"  she  persisted. 

"  No,"  he  answered  shortly. 

Florence  threw  her  arms  wide  with  a  gesture  that  was 
nearly  tragic. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed  passionately,  "  I  will  not  be  poor ! 
It  means — it  means  death  and  burial — nothing  less.  Who 
will  come  to  see  me  ?  Who  will  talk  about  me  ?  Particu 
larly  if  you  have  cheated  somebody." 

Needham  winced,  but  to  Florence  the  deed  itself  was 
so  trifling  beside  its  consequences  that  she  did  not  no 
tice  it. 

"  Everybody  will  drop  me.  What  good  has  it  all  done  ? 
— my  efforts  and  my  success  !" 

Elements  of  real  tragedy  were  here,  but  she  had  seized 
upon  the  ignoble  qualities,  and  threatened  to  make  it  a 
farce. 


328  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  I  wonder  you  haven't  thought  of  that  before.  What  is 
the  good  of  it  ?" 

But  this  was  an  appeal  to  a  sanity  beyond  which  Florence 
had  passed.  The  fact  that  she  could  have  asked  such  a 
question  was  but  to  announce  the  blackest  despair. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  I  that  am  to  blame  ?"  she  asked,  not 
remorsefully,  but  with  a  determination  to  understand. 

"  No,  I  guess  not,"  he  answered  wearily.  "  I've  chucked 
it  away  as  fast  as  you  have." 

"  And  you  haven't  as  much  to  show  for  it." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not." 

Florence  gathered  up  her  fan  and  gloves  and  swept  to 
the  door.  There  she  paused. 

"  Is  there  no  way  out  of  disgrace  ?  No  chance  of  escap 
ing  it?" 

"  No — yes,  one  chance.     No  certainty." 

"  What  is  it  ?"     She  was  at  his  side  again. 

"  Nothing  but  another  speculation — foolish  enough,  the 
Lord  knows  —  but  they  say  it  may  turn  out  something. 
What's  the  use  of  telling  you  ?  It  won't.  It's  those  chances 
that  I've  waited  for  and  staked  on,  and  that  have  always 
come  up  blanks.  It  is  because  I  didn't  want  to  wait  for  one 
more  that  I  tried  to  cut  the  whole  business." 

"  If  it  succeeds,  what  will  it  do  ?" 

"  Give  me  enough  to  tide  over  a  nasty  place.  Perhaps 
give  me  a  fresh  start." 

"The  idea  of  a  man's  giving  up  when  he  has  one 
chance!" 

Florence  spoke  in  her  hard,  deliberate  little  way.  "  You 
would  have  put  yourself  hopelessly  in  the  wrong ;  you  would 
have  brought  dreadful  disgrace  upon  everybody  belonging 
to  you,  and  all  when  there  may  be  a  way  out  of  it." 

"  And  I  would  have  kept  you  home  from  the  Rimmon 
dinner." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  329 

"  It  was  a  cowardly  thing  to  do."  She  was  unmoved  by 
his  sarcasm. 

"  Well,  Florence,  I  guess  I  am  a  coward,"  he  said,  tired 
of  the  whole  subject.  It  was  as  if  the  nervous  petu 
lance  of  the  discontented  man  had  deepened  into  real 
sorrow  and  disappointment.  Florence  crossed  the  room 
again  to  the  door.  It  would  have  been  better  if  she  had 
been  a  little  more  gentle  in  her  regret.  Possibly  not  even 
in  the  days  of  courtship  would  Needham  have  valued  a 
caressing  word  or  gesture  more  than  he  would  have  now. 
But  she  gave  neither.  She  had  listened  so  long  to  the 
suggestions  of  one  side  of  her  nature  that  other  impulses 
had  become  numbed  and  powerless.  For  the  seventy  and 
seventh  time,  perhaps,  she  had  stood  at  a  parting  of  the 
ways,  but  she  did  not  even  see  it — such  was  the  pitifulness 
of  her  punishment. 

That  night  left  a  deep  void  in  their  relations  that  was 
never  bridged  over,  and  which  later  Florence  learned,  with 
a  certain  discontent,  to  realize  was  impassable  by  her  most 
concentrated  effort. 

"  I  do  not  think  we  shall  be  poor,"  was  all  she  said  as 
she  went  away  and  left  him.  As  it  happened  she  was  right. 
Poetical  justice  demanded  that  they  should  be,  that  a 
spoiled  child  like  Florence  should  be  corrected  by  the 
rod  of  privation.  But  there  seems  to  be  a  justice  beyond 
even  the  poetical,  and  perhaps  it  was  a  keener,  more  scath 
ing  sentence  that  allowed  her  to  go  on  in  the  way  she  had 
chosen,  without  let  or  hindrance  —  the  lesson  she  might 
have  profited  by  unlearned. 

When  the  next  morning's  paper  announced  the  success 
of  the  mining  scheme  of  which  Needham  had  spoken  so 
discouragingly,  and  later  operations  relieved  him  from  the 
most  pressing  of  his  engagements,  in  Florence's  eyes  the 
world  rolled  on  as  before.  There  were  questions  asked, 


330  WHITE    BIRCHES 

suspicions  were  aroused  among  men  who  knew  and  had 
watched  Needham's  career ;  but  there  was  no  overt  failure 
to  meet  liabilities,  no  noisy  creditors,  nothing  that  came  to 
the  ears  of  the  city  at  large.  On  the  whole,  Needham's 
conduct,  whatever  it  was,  was  by  common  consent  of  the 
wise  lifted  from  the  sphere  governed  by  the  laws  of  ethics 
to  that  higher  and  less  easily  attainable  one  of  "  smartness." 
He  had  been  pretty  smart,  they  said ;  they  didn't  know  he 
could  do  it.  But  not  many  weeks  later  he  wrote  Denver 
Trent  a  letter,  accompanying  it  by  certain  transferences  of 
property  which  occasioned  some  astonishment. 

"  Darn  it !"  said  Denver  to  himself  at  last,  "  it  was  a  close 
call.  But  what's  the  use  of  getting  as  old  as  I  be  if  I'm  go 
ing  to  be  s'prised  at  things  ?"  With  which  the  matter  ended. 

Meanwhile  Rhodope  was  gone,  and  Florence  could  give 
her  whole  mind  to  the  interview  that  she  was  to  have  with 
Mrs.  Medcott.  It  was  with  a  delightful  sense  of  abandon 
ment  that  she  gave  herself  up  to  rough  mental  drafts  of 
the  interview,  and  to  the  subsequent  touching  up  and  ton 
ing  down  of  light  and  shade.  She  resolved  to  go  early, 
that  she  might  have  some  consecutive  conversation,  for 
naturally  she  was  clever  enough  to  perceive  that  Mrs. 
Medcott's  object  in  asking  her  was  to  find  out  about  Rhod 
ope.  She  hastily  reviewed  Uncle  Denver's  limp,  and  a 
pair  of  unregenerate  overalls  in  which  he  was  wont  to  ap 
pear  upon  week-days;  the  little  wooden  house,  with  its 
living-room  adorned  with  the  various  stores  connected  with 
eating,  fishing,  hunting,  and  other  domestic  economies  ; 
then  Jib,  with  his  lazy  drawl  and  high-minded  indifference 
to  the  conventionalities. 

"  Good-looking,  of  course  " — she  knew  just  how  she  would 
say  this — "with  an  uncultivated  sort  of  beauty,  like  his 
sister's."  The  social  amenities  of  the  valley  and  its  pecul 
iarities  of  speech  she  could  hit  off  very  well.  As  for  Eliza- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  331 

beth,  the  future  sister-in-law,  her  affinities  with  the  circus 
would  be  sure  to  please  the  fastidious  taste  of  the  Med- 
cotts.  She  thought  it  would  be  a  fair  construction  of  the 
truth  to  imply  that  these  affinities  had  not  been  confined  to 
private  life.  Austin  Medcott's  sister-in-law  jumping  through 
a  hoop  was  a  spectacle  his  mother  could  not  fail  to  dwell 
on  with  satisfaction.  She  was  doubting  whether  to  hint 
darkly  at  tights — pink  silk  tights — as  she  put  on  her  bonnet 
to  go  to  a  concert  which  she  was  to  attend  on  her  way  to 
Mrs.  Medcott's.  To  be  sure,  she  could  not  assert  positively 
that  she  had  ever  seen  Elizabeth  in  pink  silk  tights,  but 
there  was  a  delicious  concreteness  in  the  suggestion  as  an 
argument  in  Rhodope's  disfavor  that  she  was  loath  to  aban 
don.  She  rolled  it  as  a  sweet  morsel  under  her  tongue  as 
she  entered  the  concert-room.  Florence  had  never  been 
susceptible  to  music.  Perhaps  it  was  that  it  never  appealed 
to  her  primarily  as  music.  She  went  to  hear  some  one  sing, 
because  people  just  then  talked  about  that  person's  voice. 
She  attended  certain  orchestral  performances  because  the 
best  people  showed  there.  She  conscientiously  sat  through 
evening  after  evening  of  the  fashionable  opera,  possibly  up 
held  by  that  relic  of  superstitious  belief  which  so  many  of 
us  unconsciously  cling  to— the  suggestion  that  it  will  be 
made  up  to  her  under  future  discipline  in  another  world ; 
perhaps  only  as  one  of  the  numerous  company  whose  feel 
ings,  while  there,  coincide  with  those  of  the  celebrated 
Bishop  of  Rum-Ti-Foo  in  his  arduous  struggles  to  learn  the 
dance  of  which  his  instructor  assures  him, 

"  'The  attitude's  considered  quaint.' — 
The  weary  bishop,  feeling  faint, 
Replied,  '  I  do  not  say  it  ain't, 

But  "Time!"  my  Christian  friend!'" 

This  afternoon,  however,  Florence  underwent  a  new  ex- 


332  WHITE    BIRCHES 

perience.  It  was  the  lightest  kind  of  music  to  which  she 
listened  in  company  with  the  fashionable  audience  that  had 
made  this  leader  the  fashionable  conductor  of  the  day.  The 
programme  consisted  of  nothing  but  dance-music,  gay,  re 
gretful,  swinging,  passionate,  reminiscent  waltzes.  It  was 
as  if  the  shallow  nature,  that  was  unstirred  by  the  depth  and 
grandeur  of  the  harmony  of  the  great  masters,  was  cast  into 
a  strange  ferment  at  the  touch  of  an  inspiration  that  it  could 
understand.  As  she  listened  she  found  herself  growing 
curiously  softened.  The  melodies  were  full  of  the  spirit  of 
youth,  its  short-sighted,  unheeding  gayety,  and  its  bitter, 
brief  regrets.  It  was  the  same  music  to  which  she  had 
danced  night  after  night,  a  few  years  ago,  with  Charlie 
Needham,  Tom  Davenant,  and  hosts  of  others.  She  had 
danced  often  enough  since,  but  it  had  been  a  different 
thing.  In  the  balls  of  to-day  she  found  none  of  that  sweet 
intoxication  that  once  made  the  ball-room  a  world  of  its 
own,  beyond  which  there  was  nothing  that  need  be  taken 
thought  of.  Unconsciously  she  found  herself  thinking  of 
Needham  as  he  had  been  then,  not  as  the  harassed,  petu 
lant  man  with  whom  she  had  hardly  exchanged  a  word  at; 
breakfast.  She  recalled  a  particular  box  of  roses  he  had 
sent  her  for  a  certain  ball.  A  pretty  but  rather  faded 
woman  leaned  over  and  spoke  to  her. 

"I  never  hear  'One  heart,  one  soul,'  Florence,"  she 
said,  "  without  thinking  of  poor  George  Ralston.  Do  you 
remember  when  we  all  went  together  to  that  dance  ?" 

Florence  nodded.     "  Yes,"  she  said. 

Her  limited  soul  was  filled  with  a  passionate  regret  for 
those  days  of  youth  and  ignorance.  George  Ralston  had 
gone  away  to  the  West  and  had  died  there.  It  had  not  oc 
curred  to  her  then  that  anybody  of  her  own  age  could  die. 
Well,  she  was  glad  she  had  had  it  all.  In  this  new,  strange 
mood  it  seemed  a  more  actual  benefit  to  have  had  those 


WHITE    BIRCHES  333 

pleasures  of  youth  and  beauty  than  the  more  diplomatic 
and  valuable  ones  of  later  years. 

The  leader  rose  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  describing  a  com 
plete  titillating  circle,  pointing  his  baton  now  at  one  and 
now  at  another  of  the  players  with  a  gesture  imploring, 
beseeching,  commanding  by  turns ;  now  and  then  he  took  a 
violin  himself,  and  as  he  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings  it 
was  as  if  he  said,  "  Go  as  you  please  now,  I  am  playing." 
Then  he  laid  it  down.  "  Now  I  am  not !  Look  what  you 
are  about  there — you — you  !  Now  you  wait  till  it  is  your 
turn,"  the  baton  indicated  with  fury.  Was  he  really  silent  ? 
Had  these  little  beseechings,  these  impatiences,  not  been 
spoken  aloud  ?  Were  they  but  the  expression  of  his  elastic 
poses  ? 

Florence  watched  and  listened,  fascinated.  Yes,  she  had 
had  it !  She  had  lived  and  revelled  in  that  ball-room 
world  of  delight  and  intoxication  and  emulation.  Suddenly 
she  thought  of  Medcott  and  Rhodope,  and  with  a  new  soft 
ness.  Perhaps  the  newly  awakened  domination  of  Dave- 
nant's  nature  over  hers  had  weakened  Medcott's  hold  on 
her  fancy.  She  wondered  now  if  it  were  worth  while  to  in 
terfere  with  their  happiness  ?  Had  she  not  done  enough  ? 
Could  not  they,  too,  have  their  holiday  ?  That  despairing 
minor  wail  that  breaks  now  and  then  through  the  gayest 
music  came  to  her  ears  like  an  overwhelmning  reproach. 
George  Ralston  had  gone  away  and  died.  After  people  died, 
so  little  mattered.  The  leader  rose  on  his  toes  and  pointed 
high  in  the  air,  as  to  the  rising  star  of  progress  or  the  first 
faint  flush  of  dawn.  You  were  spiritually  elevated  in  spite 
of  yourself.  Then  down  again  into  the  orchestra.  "  Can't 
you  get  more  '  go  '  into  it  ?  Can't  you  ?  So  !  So  !  So  !" 
It  was  not  music  to  stir  the  soul,  but  it  stirred  the  fancy 
and  those  upper  strata  of  emotion  which  take  the  place  of 
depths  in  women  like  Florence  Needham.  Tom  Davenant 


334  WHITE    BIRCHES 

had  loved  her  then.  He  had  been  near  her  always ;  he 
didn't  care  for  dancing  as  much  as  she  did,  but  he  always 
danced  with  her.  Poor  Tom !  She  had  treated  him  badly. 
Why  should  she  want  him  to  care  for  her  any  longer  ?  Why 
not  be  willing  that  he  should  have  a  relief  from  what  had 
been  the  fever  of  that  intense,  longing,  gay,  reckless  time 
of  youth  ? 

The  leader  was  in  the  attitude  of  Hamlet  adjuring  his 
father's  ghost ;  but  you  knew  that  this  distinguished  gentle 
man  had  never  seen  any  ghosts — save  perhaps  delicate, 
dreamy,  feminine  ones  of  a  deserted  ball-room,  ghosts  with 
broken  fans  and  bits  of  torn  tarlatan  and  a  pretty,  sad,  sug 
gestive,  pathetic  grace  of  fleeting  smiles,  mocking  flattery,  and 
passing  youth — and  would  not  have  followed  them  if  he  had. 

Florence  went  straight  from  the  concert-room  to  Mrs. 
Medcott's.  On  the  way  she  was  surprised  to  find  the 
day  cold  and  gray,  she  had  been  so  long  amid  the  light, 
the  perfume,  and  the  figures  of  the  ball-room.  There  was 
almost  no  one  there.  Bertha  was  talking  with  one  or  two 
people  at  the  tea-table.  Mrs.  Medcott  was  saying  good- 
by  to  an  old  lady  who  was  evidently  of  importance.  She 
greeted  Mrs.  Needham  with  just  enough  cordiality,  and  in 
a  moment  she  was  seated  by  her  on  a  small  sofa,  the  tea- 
table  talk  barely  reaching  their  ears. 

"You  will  want  to  know  about  Rhodope  Trent,"  said 
Florence.  Mrs.  Medcott  was  rather  shocked  at  the  bare 
ness  of  the  proposition. 

"  I  have  heard  about  her  already,"  she  smiled.  "  Helena 
Screed  has  just  been  here." 

"  But  I  knew  her  at  home,"  said  Florence  hastily.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed,  and  her  eyes  had  that  evanescent 
softness  that  sometimes  made  them  dangerous.  Mrs.  Med 
cott  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  might  be  a  more  at 
tractive  woman  than  she  had  been  inclined  to  believe. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  335 

"  She  is  what  Mr.  Davenant  would  call  tremendously 
fine." 

It  showed  Davenant's  influence  over  her,  that  she  chose 
his  expression  rather  than  her  own  when  she  was  moved. 

"  She  is  not  like  other  people — not  in  the  least  like  me, 
for  instance." 

"  I  was  afraid  so."  Mrs.  Medcott  still  smiled,  but  she  was 
more  curious. 

"No— no,  I  don't  mean  like  that.  But  she  sees  things 
differently.  She  dresses  queerly  sometimes,  but  after  all 
it — it  suits  her."  This  attained  to  positive  heroism.  "  She 
is  very  handsome  and  very  good.  You  will  like  her." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  it."    Mrs.  Medcott  was  very  curious. 

"  At  home— at  her  home — it  is  not  like  this,  you  know, 
but  it  is  not  bad." 

Bertha  rose  and  came  forward.  Her  guests  were  taking 
leave  and  others  were  coming. 

"You  will  not  forget,"  said  Florence  in  a  low  tone, 
"  you  will  like  her." 

"  No,  I  shall  not  forget ;  thank  you  for  telling  me." 

For  almost  the  first  time  Mrs.  Medcott  nearly  doubted 
her  own  impressions.  The  conversation  was  diverted  and 
the  spell  was  wearing  off  as  Florence  said  good-by,  but  it 
had  done  its  work.  For  an  hour  she  had  thought  and 
acted  without  taking  thought  of  the  morrow. 

Just  before  dinner  Austin  came  in.  There  was  a  letter 
for  him  on  the  table.  He  held  it  a  minute  in  his  hand  be 
fore  opening  it.  He  had  not  seen  his  mother  for  several 
days.  She  watched  him  as  he  walked  over  to  the  fire  to 
read  it.  His  face  flushed  and  his  hand  tightened  over  it  as 
he  finished,  otherwise  he  was  quiet. 

"  Your  Miss  Trent  cannot  be  a  mere  wild-flower,  Austin," 
said  his  mother,  going  up  to  him.  She  had  a  wonderful  fas 
cination  of  manner.  "  She  must  be  a  rare  and  delicate  or- 


336  WHITE   BIRCHES 

chid,  which,  as  we  all  know,  is  not  only  a  beautiful  thing, 
but  a  fashionable — " 

Medcott  sighed  impatiently,  but  she  went  on,  her  hand  on 
his  arm:  "for  she  has  won  the  discriminating  praise  of 
Mrs.  Florence  Needham." 

"After  she  has  let  her  go,"  broke  out  Austin  impa 
tiently. 

"But  did  you  not  know  she  was  going?"  asked  his 
mother,  surprised.  "  We  heard  so  a  day  or  two  ago." 

"  No,  I  did  not  know." 

He  felt  disproportionately  overwhelmed.  There  had 
been  such  a  succession  of  things  between  them,  and  just 
as  he  thought  they  were  brushed  away,  just  as  even  the 
spiteful  woman  who  had  done  such  repeated  harm  had 
yielded — she  was  gone !  He  could  not  reach  her,  and  the 
sad  little  note  he  held  in  his  hand,  while  it  thought  itself  an 
obstacle,  but  filled  him  with  renewed  longing  to  speak  to 
her  face  to  face. 

"She  must  be  a  remarkable  woman,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Medcott  later  to  Bertha.  "  I  have  hopes  of  her,"  but  she 
sighed. 

"  I  suppose  it  would  have  been  our  duty  any  way  not  to 
oppose  it  if  she  is  really  interested  in  Austin,"  reflected 
Bertha. 

"  It  would  not  have  been  mine,"  said  her  mother  sharp 
ly.  "  It  would  have  been  my  duty  to  break  it  off,  and  if  I 
hadn't  succeeded,  never  to  become  resigned  to  the  ways  of 
Providence.  And  it  will  be  now,  if  she  is  an  ordinary  per 
son.  Of  course  she  is  interested  in  Austin  !  Women  al 
ways  have  been  since  he  was  five  !  That  is  no  sign  that 
they  were  made  for  each  other!" 

Medcott  read  Rhodope's  note  over  and  over  again,  seek 
ing  to  read  all  that  there  was  between  the  lines.  It  was  a 
short  note  and  she  had  sought  to  make  it  absolutely  truth- 


WHITE   BIRCHES  337 

ful.  Its  force  was  all  in  what  it  left  unsaid.  Altogether  it 
touched  Medcott  inexpressibly,  though  he  did  not  know  all 
the  circumstances. 

"  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  best,"  she  had  written.     "I  am  going 
away.     Do  not  think  I  do  not  understand.     I  shall  not  be  miserable. 
Please  do  not  write  to  me  again.     It  was  good  of  you  to  think  of  it. 
"  Yours  truly, 

"RHODOPE  TRENT." 

22 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

"Why  else  was  the  harmony  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue 

thence  ? 
Why  rushed  the  discords  in  but  that  harmony  should  be  prized?" 

"  Oh,  world  as  God  has  made  it,  all  is  beauty, 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 
What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared?" 

"  AIN'T  it  most  time  for  that  teaspoonful  of  medicine  ?" 
asked  a  feeble,  querulous  voice  from  the  bed. 

"  No,  Miss  Matilda."  The  answer  came  in  Rhodope's 
quiet  tones.  "It  isn't  time  for  half  an  hour  yet." 

"I  dono  as  it  does  any  good  anyhow,"  observed  the 
querulous  voice,  its  flavor  of  acidity  diluted,  but  not  de 
stroyed,  by  physical  weakness.  Rhodope  made  no  reply, 
and  the  former  silence  fell  upon  the  sick-room.  It  had 
been  a  silence  of  an  hour's  duration.  A  small  lamp  burned 
dimly  on  the  table  with  its  usual  sick-room  litter  of  bottles, 
glasses,  and  spoons,  causing  curious  shadows  to  fall  here 
and  there  in  unexpected  places,  illustrating,  after  the  fash 
ion  of  shadows,  undreamed-of  possibilities  in  the  forms  of 
well-known  and  altogether  normal  objects.  But  the  table 
and  the  shadows  were  the  only  notes  of  disorder  in  the 
room.  The  patchwork  counterpane  was  a  marvel  of  well- 
regulated  lights  and  shades.  The  virginal  simplicity  of 
Miss  Spore's  chamber  was  uncorrupted  by  any  hint  of  lux 
ury  save  that  of  a  braided  mat  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  and 
a  framed  canvas  representing  in  colored  lithograph  certain 
Masonic  emblems  of  an  order  to  which  the  father  of  Matil- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  339 

da  had  once  belonged.  The  detached  but  impressive  eye, 
the  square  and  compass,  the  altar,  the  visible  lightning,  all 
of  these  symbols  had  exerted  their  influence  upon  Miss  Ma 
tilda's  development,  and  perhaps  contributed  to  the  sever 
ity  of  her  moral  nature.  A  child  whose  early  recollections 
of  parental  hours  of  relaxation  are  attended  by  the  vision 
of  the  altar,  the  lightning,  and  the  square,  could  not  well 
grow  up  to  take  a  light-minded  view  of  social  recreations. 
It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  this  masterpiece  be 
longed  in  the  parlor,  but  since  her  illness  Miss  Matilda  had 
craved  its  presence  before  her  eyes.  Since  infancy  she 
had  gazed  upon  it  with  varying  emotions  of  awe,  curiosity, 
mystification,  and  admiration.  Of  late  years  these  had 
yielded  a  large  place  to  the  calmer  satisfaction  of  family 
pride.  In  the  restless  helplessness  of  illness,  amid  the  lim 
ited  resources  of  the  unimpressive  wall-paper  and  the  green 
window-shades,  she  found  in  contemplation  of  its  glories 
much  of  the  same  distinct,  if  evasive,  comfort  contained  in 
the  pronunciation  of  Mesopotamia. 

The  rest  of  the  room,  as  has  been  hinted,  appealed  less 
to  the  aestheticism  of  the  observer.  That  it  was  spotlessly 
neat  and  somehow  suggestive  of  the  tightly  drawn  back 
hair  and  unornamental  collar  of  its  occupant,  need  not  be 
stated  to  such  as  have  cared  to  observe  Miss  Spore's  ten 
dencies.  Rhodope  glanced  at  the  small  but  remorseless 
clock  on  the  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  then  rose  a 
little  wearily,  and,  walking  to  the  low  window,  knelt  on  the 
floor,  and,  drawing  away  the  calico  curtain,  leaned  her  head 
against  the  pane.  It  had  been  stormy,  but  the  wind  and 
the  cold  rain  had  ceased.  Before  her  the  mountains  loomed 
dark  and  silent.  Above  her  the  stars  looked  down  with 
clear-sighted  solemnity  upon  the  earth  beneath.  Below  her 
the  street  in  the  outskirts  of  the  little  town  lay  hushed  and 
empty,  as  though  it  were  a  street  of  that  other  village  where 


340  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  All  the  villagers  lie  asleep  ; 
Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap ; 
Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh ; 
Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie." 

She  was  alone  with  the  silences  that  she  loved.  Her 
thoughts  could  lie  at  peace  or  raise  themselves  reverently 
to  high  things  under  the  guardianship  of  the  night  She 
was  far  from  the  mocking,  thwarting  disturbances  that  had 
troubled  and  hampered  her.  And  yet  ?  Her  eyes  grew  sad 
as  she  pressed  her  forehead  more  closely  against  the  cold 
pane.  Had  she  come  back  to  them  in  vain?  Had  they 
for  the  first  time  no  help  for  her — those  everlasting  hills  ? 
Her  forehead  slipped  down  into  her  hands  as  she  knelt 
facing  a  great  unrest,  that  seemed  to  widen  out  before  her 
into  a  pitiful  loneliness  without  bounds,  and  over  which  she 
could  not  pass,  save  wearily  and  in  many  years. 

The  clock  hasted  not,  nor  halted,  but  ticked  on  stead 
ily  ;  for  was  not  this  night  as  other  nights,  and  why  hasten 
or  retard  its  hours,  that  led  but  to  a  day  that  should  be  as 
other  days? 

Miss  Matilda  had  been  very  ill.  The  nervous  strain,  the 
long,  chill  watching,  the  overtaxed  strength,  had  resulted 
in  a  sudden  sharp  attack  of  fever.  She  had  insisted  upon 
going  back  alone  to  her  empty  house,  where  she  had  broken 
down,  and  been  discovered  helpless  and  unresigned  by  the 
child  of  a  neighbor  who  brought  in  the  morning's  pitcher 
of  milk.  It  is  safe  to  assert  that  that  child,  though  in  no 
wise  shielded  from  the  vicissitudes  of  mature  life,  will  never 
forget,  in  the  light  of  subsequent  experiences,  the  details  of 
that  morning.  Miss  Matilda  gave  her  directions  as  to  what 
she  wanted  done,  and  the  child  tried  to  follow  them  to  the 
best  of  her  not-skilled,  and  perhaps  somewhat  slow-witted, 
ability.  Miss  Matilda  told  her  to  make  a  fire,  and  then 
found  fault  with  the  disposition  of  each  stick  and  bit  of 


WHITE    BIRCHES  341 

paper  in  a  sharp,  weak  voice,  that  came  with  singular  vivid 
ness,  from  the  stiff  lounge  whither  she  had  dragged  herself, 
to  the  ears  of  the  frightened  child. 

"There  ain't  any  draught,"  moaned  Miss  Matilda. 
"'Ain't  your  ma  ever  told  you  you  can't  make  a  fire  with 
out  a  draught  ?  Put  them  sticks  crossways  'stid  of  len'th- 
ways — not  them  sticks,  the  little  ones  !  Open  that  little  slide 
at  the  bottom.  Land  o'  grief !  that  ain't  the  slide — it's  the 
door !  Do  you  want  to  put  out  all  there  is  ?" 

With  panicky  fingers  the  child  pushed  the  wrong  way, 
and  the  slide  refused  to  open. 

"  Did  you  know  there  was  a  nose  on  your  face  ?"  in 
quired  Miss  Spore  with  irritated  inelegance.  "  Push  it  the 
other  way  !  There  !  You  do  beat  all  for  awk'ardness.  Now 
blow  a  little.  Mercy  on  us !"  And  her  voice  rose  in  a  fee 
ble  shriek.  "  Don't  roll  your  eyes  so,  and  don't  blow  the  hull 
stove  out  o'  doors !  You'll  give  me  the  apperplexy.  Now 
fetch  the  kittle.  For  goodness'  sake  !  That  ain't  the  kit 
tle — that's  the  saucepan — don't  any  of  your  ma's  children 
know  a  saucepan  from  a  kittle  ?"  So  the  directions  had  pro 
ceeded  till  the  poor  little  ignoramus,  whose  errors  had  been 
rather  those  of  alarm  than  of  natural  thick-headedness,  es 
caped  to  send  in  her  mother,  who  speedily  sent,  in  her  turn, 
for  the  doctor. 

"I  want  to  see  Denver  Trent,"  said  Miss  Matilda  to 
the  doctor,  "and  you  sha'n't  stir  me  a  step  till  I  do  see 
him." 

The  doctor,  like  most  of  her  acquaintances,  had  no  wish 
to  push  matters  with  Miss  Matilda  merely  for  the  pleasure 
of  theoretical  demonstration,  and  he  sent  for  Denver  Trent 
as  soon  as  might  be.  Jib  drove  Denver  over  and  waited 
for  him  while  he  limped  up  the  steps  of  Miss  Matilda's  lit 
tle  house,  which  grew  right  up  from  the  street,  with  only 
room  for  a  fence  between,  probably  because,  when  it  was 


342  WHITE    BIRCHES 

built,  front-door  yards  might  have  been  had  for  the  asking. 
Matilda  still  lay  on  the  sofa,  her  cheeks  burning  with  fever, 
the  counterpane  looking  fairly  scandalized  at  thus  being 
brought  into  public  notice,  and  a  blanket  shawl  wrapped 
about  her  spare  form. 

"  Wai,  Denver,"  she  said  hastily,  "  I  guess  you're  won- 
derin'  what  on  airth  I  sent  for  you  for." 

"Well,  I  was — consider'ble,"  answered  Denver  frankly. 
"  I'm  sorry  you're  sick,  anyhow,  Matilda." 

"  I  dono  as  I'm  sick,"  she  said  shortly. 

"  I  thought  you  sent  for  me  because  you  was  sick,"  said 
Denver,  without  the  slightest  heat. 

"  Wai,  I  did,"  she  assented.     "  You  know  about  Tim  ?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  soberly. 

"Wai,  I  'ain't  got  anybody  to  look  after  me  now."  It 
would  have  been  a  triumph  for  poor  Tim  if  he  could  have 
heard  his  aunt  acknowledge  by  implication  that  he  had 
looked  after  her.  "  And  I  don't  seem  to  think  of  anybody 
but  you  that's  ever  been  much  of  any  friends  with  me.  Not 
that  you  was  ever  any  great  shakes  of  a  friend."  Miss 
Spore's  eyes  had  a  gleam  of  something  that  was  not  fever. 
"You  allers  liked  Marcella  Brown  best." 

Denver  Trent's  eyes  glis'tened. 

"  Seems  's  if  you  was  goin'  back  a  good  ways,  ain't  you, 
Matilda?"  he  asked  gently. 

"  Mebbe  I  am.     You  did,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  guess  I  allers  did,"  he  answered  simply.  "  I 
liked  her  better  'n  anybody  else." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  the  forlorn  old  woman,  whose  voice 
was  growing  weaker  from  fatigue.  "  But  you've  allers  been 
pretty  frien'ly  to  Tim  and  me,  and  I  want  you  to  git  some 
body  over  in  the  valley  to  come  over  and  take  care  o'  me. 
I  don't  want  anybody  here.  'N'  I  want  you  to  kind  o'  keep 


WHITE    BIRCHES  343 

your  eye  on  things  if  I'm  very  sick.  I'll  feel  better  if  you 
do.  That's  all,  Denver." 

And  Denver  Trent  came  away,  having  promised,  and 
soon  thereafter  despatched  his  reckless  telegram. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  why  she  had  sent  for  him. 
Whether  it  was  the  old  sentiment  which  suddenly  asserted 
its  survival,  or  the  old  jealousy  seeking  an  opportunity  to 
observe  what  wound  had  been  made  by  the  death  of  her 
rival,  or  a  sudden  realization  of  her  unloved,  unliked  help 
lessness  and  Denver  Trent's  steadfastness  of  character — 
whether  all  or  any  of  these,  or  but  the  vagary  of  feverish- 
ness,  even  she  herself  could  not  have  told,  but  it  was  this 
that  she  did, 

"Blowin'  like  Statia,  ain't  it?"  Denver  had  said  as  he 
helped  Rhodope,  half  frozen,  out  of  the  sleigh.  "  I  guess 
it  came  hard  for  you  to  come  away.  But  land !  Rhode, 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  back.  What  with  my  leg  givin'  out 
just  when  it  did,  and  one  thing  and  another,  I  felt  kinder 
like  a  woman  with  a  jack-knife — more  I  try  to  do  things 
right,  more  it  looks  as  if  I'd  never  done  'em  before,  and 
wasn't  ever  goin'  to  do  'em  again — and  yet  wantin'  to  do 
somethin'."  And  Rhodope  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  little 
living-room,  and  looked  slowly  and  lovingly  about  her  at  the 
big  open  fireplace ;  at  Jib  kicking  the  snow  from  his  boots 
into  the  hissing  flame ;  at  a  paper-covered  novel  on  the  red 
table-cover ;  at  the  crocheted  mat,  and  the  framed  wreath  of 
immortelles  that  had  lain  on  her  mother's  grave  ;  at  all  the 
other  dear,  familiar  things  ;  and  lastly  at  Uncle  Denver  him 
self,  smiling  as  he  balanced  himself  against  a  chair  to  save 
his  lame  leg,  and  then  she  went  up  to  him  and  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  said, 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Denver,  it  is  never  a  hard  thing  to  come 
home  !" 

"  I  guess  it's  more  'n  half  an  hour,  now,"  said  the  restless 


344  WHITE    BIRCHES 

voice  from  the  bed.  Miss  Matilda  had  not  been  asleep,  but 
had  been  lying  staring  at  the  counterpane  and  the  Masonic 
picture,  which,  though  invisible  in  the  shadow,  revealed  to 
the  eye  of  familiarity  its  salient  features.  Rhodope  rose 
and  went  to  the  bedside. 

"  In  two  or  three  minutes  it  will  be,"  she  said  gently.  "  I 
had  not  forgotten."  She  seated  herself  and  looked  down 
at  Miss  Matilda.  A  great  pity  for  her  filled  her  heart. 
Here  was  a  life  as  empty,  as  self-despoiled,  as  any  that  were 
lived  amid  the  manifold  hindrances  of  the  city.  Was  there 
so  much  to  choose  between  the  stony  places,  incapable  of 
fostering  the  good,  and  those  where  thorns  sprang  up  and 
choked  it  ?  She  was  so  unloved  that  she  needed  pity.  To 
Rhodope  it  seemed  a  terrible  thing  to  be  unloved.  She 
wondered  if  she  should  ever  get  to  the  point  where  she 
would  not  care. 

"  You  can  tell  that  Elizabeth  French,"  said  Miss  Spore 
with  sudden  sharpness,  "  that  that  warn't  a  bad  Sally  Lunn 
she  made." 

"Very  well,"  said  Rhodope,  "I  will  tell  her."  She  did 
not  understand,  but  she  recognized  a  wish  to  make  amends. 
She  felt  that  Miss  Matilda  must  feel  that  she  was  going 
to  die.  She  really  was  drawing  near  to  convalescence. 
Rhodope  rose,  and  taking  from  the  table  a  bottle  and 
spoon,  poured  out  a  few  drops. 

"  Is  that  the  right  bottle  ?"  asked  Miss  Spore  with  fretful 
anxiety. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  one." 

"  Lemme  see  it.     Lemme  take  it." 

Rhodope  placed  it  in  the  thin  hand,  which  was  almost  too 
weak  to  hold  it.  This  was  an  almost  invariable  proceeding, 
Miss  Spore  never  hesitating  to  show  distrust  of  her  nurse's 
ability. 

"  That's  it,"  she  allowed. 


WHITE    BIRCHES  345 

Rhodope  gave  her  the  medicine  ;  as  she  lay  back  she 
looked  sharply  at  the  spoon. 

"Is  that  the  spoon  you've  been  using  right  along?"  she 
asked. 

Rhodope  admitted  that  it  was. 

"  'Tain't  really  a  full  spoon.  It's  under-sized.  If  you've 
been  givin'  it  to  me  in  that,  you  'ain't  give  me  enough." 

"  The  doctor  used  this  spoon,"  explained  Rhodope.  "  He 
showed  me  how  much." 

She  was  tired  and  the  night  had  been  long,  but  she  spoke 
with  the  utmost  patience. 

"There  never  was  a  man  that  knew  anythin'  about  tea 
spoons,"  murmured  Miss  Spore  as  she  grew  drowsy  under 
the  anodyne. 

Rhodope  went  back  to  the  window  and  knelt  down  again. 
She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  growing  sleepy.  She  re 
viewed  every  episode  of  her  friendship  with  Medcott.  He 
seemed  so  far  away  from  her  now,  and  yet  so  near,  so  inti 
mately  present,  that  every  word  spoken,  every  sight  seen, 
seemed  to  come  to  her  touched  by  his  personality.  And 
she  herself  had  turned  the  page  and  refused  to  read  to  the 
end  of  the  beautiful  story.  She  saw  clearly  every  word  of 
the  note  she  had  written  him,  which  had  been  meant  to 
close  the  chapter.  And  those  words  had  already  acquired 
the  obstinacy,  almost  the  incontrovertibility,  that  the  very 
act  of  writing  down  seems  to  impart  to  a  hitherto  perhaps 
shadowy  sentiment  or  intention. 

What  if  it  had  been  a  mistake  ?  She  had  yielded  to  the 
cruelty  of  Florence's  suggestion,  in  the  strange  contradic 
tion  of  things,  just  because  her  soul  had  rebelled  against  it. 
But  now  she  was  away  from  the  contradictions,  and  she 
could  think.  In  the  presence  of  the  grand  quietness  of  the 
mountains  and  the  stars,  still  one  emotion  rose  stable, 
strong,  and  immutable — her  love  for  Medcott.  The  petti- 


346  WHITE   BIRCHES 

ness  of  jealousy,  the  confusions  of  life,  the  falseness  of  ap 
pearances,  fell  away  from  her  spirit ;  but  love  stood  clear  and 
enduring,  a  mighty  fact  of  existence,  no  mirage  of  dazzling 
foreign  skies.  Artificial  laws  of  existence  could  not  destroy 
it,  though  they  might  now  and  then  deface  its  image,  and 
the  grandeur  of  nature  could  not  shut  it  out.  It  was  in  the 
world,  and  was  the  healing  of  nations.  As  the  faint,  pale 
luminousness  of  the  coming  day  stole  over  the  hills,  Rhod- 
ope  knew  that  she  must  always  see  it  and  recognize  it, 
though  she  had  chosen  to  go  forth  alone  to  meet  it,  not  in 
the  companionship  that  might  have  been  hers. 

There  was  the  sound  of  the  click  of  the  outer  latch,  a  soft 
footstep  crossed  the  hall,  and  Rhodope  raised  her  head  to 
see,  in  the  early  gray  of  the  morning,  coming  into  the  room 
the  woman  who  shared  her  watch. 

"  You  go  to  bed,  Rhodope  Trent,"  she  whispered,  "  and 
get  an  hour's  sleep  before  they  come  to  fetch  you." 

At  the  door  Rhodope  paused  and  looked  back  at  the  bed. 
The  loneliness  of  the  figure  there  touched  her  inexpressibly, 
as  it  had  done  before.  She  was  unwilling  to  go  away  and 
leave  her,  so  destitute  she  seemed.  Unconscious  that  with 
terrible  certainty,  by  the  ruthlessness  of  her  selfishness,  she 
had  stripped  not  only  the  present  but  the  future  of  what 
might  have  made  it  happy,  Matilda  Spore  was,  nevertheless, 
facing  that  desolate  future,  and  with  returning  health  it  was 
growing  always  nearer.  The  tears  came  slowly  into  Rhodope's 
eyes,  so  deep  was  her  pity.  Her  need  was  but  the  need  of 
the  whole  world,  though  she  would  never  recognize  it.  What 
did  it  matter  where  one  was  or  what  one  did  ?  Everywhere 
is  the  need,  and  those  that  have  let  them  give.  It  is  the 
world's  want — love  !  love  !  love  !  So  she  slipped  out  of  the 
room,  with  its  regularly  ticking  clock  and  the  somewhat  fit 
ful  breathing  of  Miss  Spore  demonstrating  the  indisputable 
advantage  of  pure  mechanism  unhampered  by  the  restric- 


WHITE    BIRCHES  347 

tions  of  suffering  humanity.  She  tried  to  follow  the  advice 
she  had  received,  but  she  could  not  sleep,  and  after  an  hour's 
rest  she  rose,  and  wrapping  herself  up,  went  quietly  out  of 
the  door,  determined  to  walk  up  the  road  to  the  valley  and 
meet  Jib  and  the  sleigh.  On  the  doorstep  she  stood  still  in 
wondering  delight.  The  day  before,  that  had  gone  out  in 
wailing  and  darkness,  had  been  that  of  an  ice  storm ;  and 
now,  as  the  sun  broke  forth,  it  was  into  one  of  those  morn 
ings  of  enchantment  that  only  Nature  can  provide  for  this 
somewhat  blase  earth,  catching  it  up  into  a  sort  of  ecstasy 
of  artificial  beauty,  that  convinces  us  that  there  is  no  hand 
like  hers,  and  that  all  our  boasted  human  art  is  but  trifling 
and  infinitesimal  when  she  herself  chooses  to  become  spec 
tacular.  The  trees  were  gray,  nodding  ostrich-plumes 
tipped  with  diamonds.  The  commonplace  street,  leading 
farther  into  the  sordid  little  town,  was  over-swept  and  over 
arched  by  pendent  jewelled  sprays  and  carpeted  with  brill 
iants.  The  road  which  Rhodope  turned  into,  that  led  her 
over  towards  the  valley,  was  a  long  vista  of  drooping  laces 
sparkling  with  crystals  flung  in  reckless  profusion.  The 
hills  lay  laughing  under  the  jewelled  ermine  that  had  been 
cast  upon  them.  The  trees  defied  the  danger  that  awaited 
their  straining  branches,  clad  in  a  shining  mail  that  was 
touched  by  the  wand  of  enchantment,  so  that  it  gleamed 
and  glowed  with  flames  of  prismatic  glory.  As  she  walked 
slowly  on  over  the  hard  ground  strewed  with  the  glittering 
points  of  broken  ice,  it  was  as  if  she  were  setting  forth  to 
fairy -land  on  a  strange  highway  that  led  she  knew  not 
whither,  save  that  it  was  into  fantastic  beauty  without  end. 
It  was  not  cold  ;  the  world  was  but  waiting  for  the  warmer 
touch  of  the  risen  sun  to  pass  out  of  this  fairy-land.  The 
spell  of  the  present  enchantment  must  yield  to  the  dearer 
and  more  potent  one.  It  was  still  so  early  that  she  met  no 
one  until  she  was  past  the  last  outlying  houses  of  the  little 


348  WHITE   BIRCHES 

town  and  fairly  committed  to  the  loneliness  of  the  hills. 
She  looked  up  and  on,  and  moving  towards  her  swiftly  along 
the  road  she  saw  a  man's  figure.  She  paused  an  instant  as 
if  the  staff  of  the  wizard  had  been  suddenly  laid  upon  her 
and  made  her  a  part  of  the  motionless  frozen  beauty.  She 
had  not  doubted  that  it  was  Medcott  from  the  first  flash  of 
perception.  He  quickened  his  steps  as  he  caught  sight  of 
her,  and  she  more  slowly  moved  towards  him. 

Behind  each  of  them,  in  the  distance,  the  drooping 
branches  swept  so  low  that  they  shut  off  the  turns  of  the 
road  in  masses  of  gray,  shining  beauty,  and  the  two  came 
towards  each  other  as  if  they  met  in  a  beautiful  crystal 
world  that  had  neither  entrance  nor  exit. 

"Rhodope,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands,  "you  did  not 
mean  what  you  said  in  your  letter.  I  know  that.  I  do  not 
know  that  you  love  me,  but  I  shall  not  let  you  go  on  any 
such  foolish  pretext  as  that  contained." 

She  looked  at  him  in  delicious  surprise.  All  misgivings, 
all  doubts  of  the  motives  of  his  confession,  all  thoughts  of 
anything  but  what  she  saw  in  his  eyes  melted  away.  And 
did  he  treat  that  letter  so  lightly  ?  They  had  seemed  so 
terribly  irrevocable — those  written  words !  It  had  cost  so 
much  to  write  them ! 

"No,"  she  said  gravely;  "I  have  learned  better  now." 

His  heart  leaped  at  her  words,  but  he  did  not  take  her 
in  his  arms.  She  should  tell  him  first  what  the  lesson  had 
been. 

"  What  is  it  you  have  learned,  Rhodope  ?"  he  asked.  She 
glanced  up  at  the  brilliant  blue  of  the  sky,  at  the  raintfbw 
color  of  the  trees,  at  the  shining  glory  of  the  hills.  It  was 
in  such  beautiful  silences  as  this  that  she  would  have  chosen 
to  make  her  confession. 

"  I  have  learned,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that  it  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  interfered  with,  or  perhaps  listened  to  —  that  love  is 


WHITE    BIRCHES  349 

not.  It  is  a  thing  that  belongs  to  everybody  everywhere — 
there  and  here.  And  I  love  you.  I  have  always  loved 
you — " 

She  paused  a  moment,  and  Medcott,  who  had  at  last 
heard  the  words  he  had  been  waiting  for,  stayed  not  for 
the  end.  She  had  said  that  she  loved  him.  The  swift 
color  stained  her  cheeks  under  his  kisses.  This  conclusion 
had  not  seemed  to  her  the  inevitable  one,  as  it  had  to  him. 
She  could  not  lift  her  eyes  as  her  head  lay  upon  his  shoul 
der.  He  kissed  her  eyelids,  which  increased  their  tendency 
to  stay  down. 

"  There  were  other  things  I  had  to  say,"  she  murmured, 
half  frightened,  half  smiling. 

"  And  you  have  all  the  rest  of  your  life  to  say  them  in, 
and  I  to  listen,  love,"  he  said  gently. 

The  little  fur  cap  she  wore  was  pushed  back  from  her 
soft  hair,  her  cheeks  were  brilliant  with  color,  her  grave 
lips  had  taken  tender,  happy  curves,  her  eyelashes  swept 
her  cheeks.  It  was  the  third  time  that  her  head  had  rested 
there :  once  for  an  instant  of  danger,  when  he  had  first 
known  her,  again  for  that  intense  moment  in  the  Need- 
hams'  library,  and  now,  beside  which  time  the  others  were 
pale  with  uncertainty.  It  seemed  to  him  that  their  whole 
acquaintance  had  been  a  steady  progression  to  the  flower 
of  this  happiness.  He  looked  from  her  to  the  beautiful, 
cold,  sparkling  world  about  them  ;  it  was  as  if  he  held 
the  warmth,  the  glow,  the  heart  of  all  the  beauty  in  his 
arms.  She  raised  her  head  and  he  let  her  go. 

"  It  came  to  me  last  night,"  she  said,  meeting  his  eyes 
now  that  she  stood  a  little  away  from  him,  "that  there  were 
some  things  that  are  the  same  everywhere." 

"  Always." 

"  And  when  one  wants  those  things,  one  need  not  be 
afraid  that  they  will  fail." 


350  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  Am  I  one  of  those  things  ?"  he  demanded,  half  laugh 
ing,  half  serious. 

"  Love  is,"  she  answered — "  I  have  told  you  so.  But  after 
all,"  she  went  on,  "  I  shall  always  like  it  best  here.  One 
can  be  one's  self  here." 

The  reverence  that  Medcott  had  always  felt  for  her  grew 
within  him.  He  saw  in  a  flash  of  illumination  how  both 
Davenant,  the  far-sighted,  and  he  himself,  who  so  loved  her, 
had  wronged  her.  How  was  this  nature  to  be  spoiled  or 
thwarted  by  any  environment?  It  was  strong  as  well  as 
sweet.  They  both  seemed  to  have  lost  sight  of  this  in  their 
caution. 

"And  yet,  would  you  have  learned  this?"  he  asked. 
"  Would  you  have  learned  so  well  of  the  verities  if  you  had 
not  seen  some  of  the  mutabilities?"  He  spoke  rather  to 
himself  than  to  her.  It  was  a  reminiscence  of  a  conversa 
tion  with  Davenant.  She  looked  at  him  a  little  puzzled. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  answered,  "  but  both  are  everywhere. 
I  learned  that  last  night."  He  did  not  know  what  she  was 
thinking  of,  he  hardly  knew  what  she  said— he  only  read  in 
her  eyes  the  promise  and  the  fulfilment  of  her  happiness 
and  his  own.  They  had  stood  alone  in  this  fairy-land  of 
glistening  enchantment,  and  now  faintly  came  to  them,  from 
the  distance,  the  sound  of  bells.  It  was  a  fitting  prelude  to 
the  breaking  of  the  spell.  A  crashing  branch,  over-weighted 
with  ice,  fell  not  far  from  them. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,"  said  Medcott  passionately,  "  is  this 
beauty  that  has  come  into  my  life  real  ?  Do  you  love  me  ? 
—for  to-day,  and  every  day  ?  Or  will  all  the  delight  melt 
away  as  the  beauty  about  us  must  melt  and  vanish  ?  I  do 
not  like  the  omen." 

"There  are  no  omens  in  love,"  said  Rhodope  simply. 
"  Such  things  are  all  outside.  Love  is  for  always." 

And  Jib's  sleigh-bells  rang  nearer  across  the  morning  air. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

"  Sunshine  and  love, 
Sky  blue  and  spring." 

"Four  times  Cupid's  debtor  I — 
Bankrupt  in  quadruplicate. 
Yet,  despite  this  evil  case, 
An  a  maiden  showed  me  grace, 
Four-and-forty  times  would  I 
Sing  the  Lovers'  Litany  : 
*  Love  like  ours  can  never  die  /'  " 

THE  sweetness  from  trays  of  violets,  lilies -of -the -valley, 
and  jonquils  drifted  across  the  corner  of  the  street  in  gusts 
of  perfume.  It  was  one  of  those  bright,  sunny  days  of  ear 
liest  spring,  when  it  seems  that  the  flowers  might  have  been 
plucked  by  their  Arcadian  vendors  from  the  door-yards 
about,  and  which,  with  their  vagrant  sweetness,  beguile  us 
into  a  deceptive  pleasure  in  existence,  only  that  we  may 
be  the  more  cast  down  by  the  aggressive  hurly-burly  of 
another  March  day.  Davenant  had  just  joined  Mrs.  Med- 
cott  and  Bertha,  and  was  walking  with  them  along  Twenty- 
third  Street. 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  all  you  say  she  is,  Tom,"  with  a  smile 
that  her  maternal  wisdom  modified  by  a  sigh.  "  I  had  other 
ideas  for  Austin,  as  well  as  Violet  Harrow,  but  I  have  not 
lived  to  my  present  age  to  fondly  believe  that  one's  children 
grow  up  for  the  purpose  of  carrying  out  one's  ideas." 

"  I  have  always  meant  to  invent  one  of  those  whoppers — 
what  you  might  call  a  secular  whopper." 


352  WHITE    BIRCHES 

"  My  dear  Tom,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Medcott,  "  I  must 
ask  you  to  speak  English." 

"  Remember  I  am  a  newspaper  reporter,"  said  Tom  mod 
estly,  "  and,  moreover,  I  know  of  no  synonym.  I  mean  one 
of  those  things  that  you  hang  on  the  wall  and  whop  every 
morning  as  a  sort  of  calendar  and  guide  for  the  day.  Mine 
should  have  on  it  for  one  day,  *  Nothing  lasts ' ;  for  the 
next,  '  Nothing  is  as  bad  as  it  seems ' ;  for  the  third, '  Noth 
ing  is  as  good  as  it  seems ' ;  for  the  fourth,  *  It  all  comes 
to  the  same  thing  in  the  end,'  and  then  back  to  the  begin 
ning  again — just  those  four.  I  think  the  moral  effect  would 
be  infinitely  supporting." 

"  You  are  more  cynical  than  usual  this  morning,"  ob 
served  Mrs.  Medcott. 

"It  is  the  atmosphere  of  spring  and  youth  and  beauty. 
If  it  wasn't  for  me  you  might  be  cheered  up  by  it  all.  One 
has  one's  responsibilities." 

"  I  don't  think  the  moral  effect  would  be  good  at  all," 
objected  Bertha  seriously.  "  It  would  influence  us  to  neg 
lect  our  duties." 

"  Would  it  ?"  asked  Davenant,  looking  down  at  her  with 
an  air  of  respectful  attention.  It  always  interested  him  to 
hear  Bertha  Medcott  on  the  subject  of  duty.  She  had 
gained  a  pretty  color  in  the  warm  air,  too.  "  Then  I  won't 
patent  it  immediately." 

"  I  wish  you  would,  and  give  Bertha  one.  It  is  just  what 
she  needs." 

"  Mamma  doesn't  mean  that,"  said  Bertha  anxiously. 
"  She  would  not  really  like  me  to  neglect  my  duties  any 
more  than  anybody  else." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Medcott  with  her  usual  little 
shrug  of  tolerant  impatience,  "  Tom  Davenant  doesn't  need 
the  glossary  that  you  usually  provide  for  my  conversation — 
he  heard  me  talk  almost  before  you  did." 


WHITE    BIRCHES  353 

As  Davenant  held  open  the  door  of  a  shop  for  them,  he 
noticed  what  a  pretty  figure  Bertha's  was,  and  as  she  looked 
back  at  him,  he  caught  a  transient  troubling  of  the  serenity 
of  her  glance  which  made  him  think  deeply  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Mrs.  Medcott  wouldn't  let  him  come  in  with  them ; 
she  said  she  was  only  going  in  to  buy  hairpins,  but  she  did 
not  know  what  she  might  not  feel  called  on  to  buy  before 
she  came  out,  and  she  didn't  want  to  be  hampered.  Just 
after  he  left  them  he  met  Helena  Screed  and  joined  her. 

"  I  know  you've  been  looking  for  somebody  just  like 
me,"  she  exclaimed,  "  to  talk  over  Mr.  Medcott's  engage 
ment  !  It's  people  like  you  and  me,  without  partiality  and 
without  prejudice,  that  can  be  comforts  to  each  other." 

"  I'm  not  without  partiality,"  asserted  Davenant.  "  I'm 
blinded  by  an  eccentric  devotion  to  Miss  Trent." 

"  No,  you're  not,"  said  Helena  shrewdly ;  "  you've  never 
been  blinded  by  anything — that's  the  trouble  with  you." 

"  I  object  to  your  adopting  the  r61e  of  observer,  Helena. 
Just  go  on  being  the  simple  flower  of  a  high  order  of  civili 
zation  that  you  are.  Don't  begin  to  take  notice." 

"  Begin  to  take  notice  !"  she  repeated  scornfully.  "  Did 
you  ever  know  me  when  I  didn't  take  notice  ?  But  I'm  not 
here  to  discuss  my  character,  but  the  engagement.  I  like 
it  for  many  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  because  Florence 
Needham  doesn't.  Oh,  she  doesn't  like  it  at  all !" 

"  How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Do  we  any  of  us  like  to  see  our 
fondest  hopes  decay,  and  to  know  that  the  talk  of  our  lips 
has  tended  only  to  penury?  Didn't  she  do  her  best  to 
break  it  off  ?  And  now,  that  she  didn't  break  it  off,  isn't 
she  trying  in  vain  to  get  the  credit  of  making  the  match  ?" 

"  You  are  a  contentious  woman,"  remarked  Davenant. 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  really  think  they  are  fitted  for 
each  other."  Helena  was  quite  undisturbed  by  his  criti- 
23 


354  WHITE   BIRCHES 

cism.  "  They  are  both  on  a — oh,  a  sort  of  a  plane,  you 
know.  I  always  said  she  was  an  uncommon  sort  of  per 
son,  and  as  for  Austin  Medcott,  he  is  very  uncommon  too 
— he  never  cared  for  me  in  the  least." 

"  He  was  withheld  by  a  feeling  of  delicacy,"  Davenant 
hastened  to  say,  "  because  I  cared  for  you  so  much." 

"Do  you  think  so?  I'm  glad  it  was  nothing  worse.  Did 
you  know,"  she  went  on,  "that  Mr.  Needhafh  is  going 
around  telling  everybody  that  Miss  Trent  saved  him  from 
shooting  himself  ?" 

"  Yes,  so  I've  heard." 

"Do  you  believe  it?"  Helena's  bright  eyes  scanned 
Davenant's  non-committal  face  sharply. 

"  Oh,  I  think  she'd  have  stopped  him  if  she'd  seen  him 
about  it." 

"  But  do  you  suppose  he  wanted  to  ?" 

"The  pistol  was  loaded,  I  believe.  I  don't  believe  he 
meant  to  do  himself  any  real  harm." 

"  You  are  putting  me  off  with  a  newspaper  joke  !  Never 
mind.  I'll  pay  you  back.  I'm  going  about  to  say  that  I 
have  it  on  your  authority,  as  an  intimate  friend  of  all  par 
ties,  that  she  turned  the  pistol  aside  so  that  the  ball  but 
slightly  grazed  the  left  temple.  Good-by,"  and  she  sig 
nalled  a  car  and  entered  it  without  further  discussion. 

Even  if  Florence  Needham  could  have  listened  to  Hel 
ena's  diagnosis  of  the  situation,  it  is  doubtful  if  it  could 
have  added  much  to  the  discomfiture  that  she  was  under 
going  at  this  very  moment.  While  Davenant  was  making 
his  somewhat  intermittent  way  across  the  city,  she  had  been 
standing  a  little  at  one  side  of  the  entrance  to  the  elevator 
in  one  of  the  fashionable  apartment  houses,  waiting  for  it 
to  come  up  from  a  lower  story.  As  it  drew  near  and 
stopped,  and  in  the  moment's  pause  while  the  door  was 
being  opened,  she  caught  certain  words  uttered  in  the  clear, 


WHITE    BIRCHES  355 

not  unpleasant,  but  rather  loud  voices  of  many  of  those 
women  who  are  compelled  to  be  always  talking  down  the 
noise  of  a  city. 

"  Oh,  I  grant  you  she  has  style,  beauty — brains  of  a  cer 
tain  sort  if  you  like,  but  she  lacks — 

"Oh,  of  course  she  lacks"  interrupted  the  other,  "oh! 
everything,  especially  distinction ;  but,  for  that  sort  of  wom 
an,  she  has  a  certain  air." 

"  How  you  can  tolerate  her  for  just  that !" 

"  Oh,  tolerate!  We  have  to  tolerate  everybody  nowadays 
that  has  anything  /" 

The  door  rolled  back,  Florence  stepped  forward,  and 
the  two  speakers  swept  out.  There  was  a  hurried  exchange 
of  greetings,  startled  on  the  one  side.  Quickly  as  the 
elegant,  socially  distinguished  women  recovered  their  self- 
possession,  it  came  a  second  too  late.  In  the  slight  change 
of  color,  the  quick  glance  interchanged,  Florence  had  read 
immediately  that  these  undeniable  members  of  the  class 
of  dictators  had  been  talking  of  her.  As  her  carriage-door 
closed  in  front  of  her  own  house,  she  was  still  facing  the 
fact,  and  she  was  still  angry.  If  the  glow  of  the  feeling 
that  had  led  her  to  praise  Rhodope  had  not  long  since 
passed  away,  this  experience  would  have  restored  her  to 
herself.  Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  threw  aside  her  wrap. 
She  would  live  to  defeat  those  women  on  their  own  ground. 
That  they  should  talk  of  distinction !  She  reviewed  their 
manners  and  their  connections  alike  with  bitter  satisfac 
tion.  They  should  yet  sigh  for  an  invitation  to  her  house. 
So  she  took  up  again  the  struggle  to  enter  that  Eden, 
guarded  by  an  angel  who  lays  aside  his  flaming  sword  at 
the  prospect  of  a  sufficient  bribe,  but  the  trees  of  which 
garden  are  heavy  with  the  apples  of  Sodom. 

Deserted  by  Helena,  Davenant  went  on  to  the  editorial 
office,  where  he  had  an  appointment.  As  he  waited  a  few 


356  WHITE    BIRCHES 

moments  in  an  anteroom  he  remembered  what  a  serene, 
admirable  woman  Bertha  Medcott  was,  and  how  she  had 
looked  when  she  turned  back  at  the  shop  door.  He  thought 
her  mother  was  a  little  hard  on  her.  Mrs.  Medcott  had 
always  cared  more  for  Austin.  Then  he  took  out  his  note 
book  and  scribbled  a  few  sentences. 

"  Cynical  man.  Specialty  of  unrequited  attachment. 
Poses  always  as  an  homme  de  trop.  Dead  failure.  Always 
finding  some  one  to  take  the  last  one's  place.  Finally  re 
quited?"  After  making  a  large,  black  interrogation-point 
after  the  last  word,  he  put  the  book  back  in  his  pocket,  lit 
a  cigarette,  and  walked  absently  about  the  room. 

A  week  later  he  went  to  meet  Medcott  at  the  station. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  unhurried  haste,  as  the 
men  shook  hands,  "  I  know  it  all,  my  dear  Medcott !  You 
know  I've  taken  the  story  in  instalments.  Don't  make  me 
read  the  bound  volume  too." 

They  turned  into  the  street  and  walked  towards  Mrs. 
Medcott's  house. 

"  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "  I  have  my  own  sentimental 
confession  to  make."  Medcott  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
"Yes,  I've  persuaded  your  sister  to  look  upon  me  as  a 
duty.  In  time,  I  have  hopes  of  making  her  regard  me  as 
a  pleasure  also." 


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are  not  mere  puppets,  but  original,  breathing,  and  finely  contrasted 
creations. — Chicago  Tribune. 

Miss  Woolson  is  one  of  the  few  novelists  of  the  day  who  know 
how  to  make  conversation,  how  to  individualize  the  speakers,  how 
to  exclude  rabid  realism  without  falling  into  literary  formality. — 
N.  T.  Tribune. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist 
laureate. — Boston  Qlobe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  si  vie 
and  conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  develop 
ment  of  a  story  is  very  remarkable. — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly  loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is 
all  her  own  ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh 
sensation,  and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleas 
ant  task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have 
fallen  to  her  in  very  pleasant  places  ;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within 
herself  the  wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so 
freely  into  all  she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate 
the  moral  tone  of  the  day — a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the 
time.  —  WhiteJiall  Review,  London. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

tWAny  qf  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  pontage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BY  ELIZABETH  B.  CUSTER. 


FOLLOWING  THE  GUIDON.    Illustrated,    pp.  xx.,  369. 

Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

The  story  is  a  thrillingly  interesting  one,  charmingly  told. .  .  .  Mrs. 
Ouster  gives  sketches  photographic  in  their  fidelity  to  fact,  and  touches 
them  with  the  brush  of  the  true  artist  just  enough  to  give  them  col 
oring.  It  is  a  charming  volume,  and  the  reader  who  begins  it  will 
hardly  lay  it  down  until  it  is  finished. — Boston  Traveller. 

An  admirable  book.  Mrs.  Custer  was  almost  as  good  a  soldier  as 
her  gallant  husband,  and  her  book  breathes  the  true  martial  spirit. — St. 
Louis  Republic. 

Mrs.  Ouster  has  the  faculty  of  making  her  reader  see  and  feel  with 
her. . . .  The  whole  country  is  indebted  to  Mrs,  Custer  for  so  faithfully 
depicting  phases  of  a  kind  of  army  life  now  almost  passed  away. — 
Boston  Advertiser. 

The  book  is  crowded  with  the  amusing  and  exciting  details  of  a  life 
strange  indeed  to  those  who  have  spent  their  time  sitting  tranquilly  at 
home.  Her  observation  is  so  quick,  her  descriptive  powers  so  pictu 
resque,  that  the  camp  and  the  skirmish  seem  to  live  before  the  reader. 
— Springfield  Republican. 

BOOTS  AND  SADDLES  ;  Or,  Life  in  Dakota  with  Gen- 

eral  Custer.     With  Portrait  of  General  Custer.     pp.  312. 

12mo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  50. 

A  book  of  adventure  is  interesting  reading,  especially  when  it  is  all 
true,  as  is  the  case  with  "  Boots  and  Saddles." . .  .Mrs.  Ouster  does  not 
obtrude  the  fact  that  sunshine  and  solace  went  with  her  to  tent  and 
fort,  but  it  inheres  iu  her  narrative  none  the  less,  and  as  a  consequence 
"these  simple  annals  of  our  daily  life,"  as  she  calls  them,  are  never 
dull  nor  uninteresting. — Evangelist,  N.  Y. 

We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  that  no  better  or  more  satisfactory 
life  of  General  Custer  could  have  been  written.  Indeed,  we  may  as 
well  speak  the  thought  that  is  in  us,  and  say  plainly  that  we  know  of  no 
biographical  work  anywhere  which  we  count  better  than  this. ,  ,  .  It  is 
enriched  in  every  chapter  with  illustrative  anecdotes  and  incidents,  and 
here  and  there  a  little  life  story  of  pathetic  interest  is  told  as  an  episode. 
— -Z\T.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

Every  member  of  a  Western  garrison  will  want  to  read  this  book  ; 
every  person  in  the  East  who  is  interested  in  Western  life  will  want  to 
read  it,  too  ;  and  every  girl  or  boy  who  has  a  healthy  appetite  for  ad 
venture  wifl  be  sure  to  get  it,  It  is  bound  to  have  an  army  of  readers 
that  few  authors  can  expect. — Philadelphia  Press, 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  K  Y. 

Either  of  the  above  works  will  be  eent  &//  mail, 'postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


BEN-HUR:  A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRIST. 


By  LEW.  WALLACE.  16mo,  Cloth,  $1  50.  Garfield 
Edition.  Two  Volumes.  Twenty  Full -page  Pho 
togravures.  Over  1000  Illustrations  as  Marginal 
Drawings  by  WILLIAM  MARTIN  JOHNSON.  Crown 
8vo,  Printed  on  Fine  Super-calendered  Plate-paper, 
Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Tops,  Bound  in  Silk  and 
Gold,  $7  00.  (In  a  Gladstone  Box) 

Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of 
this  romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of  Mr. 
Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The  scenes 
described  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power  and  skill  of 
an  accomplished  master  of  style. — N.  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brilliant.  .  .  . 
We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes ;  we  witness  a  sea- 
fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman  galley,  domestic  in 
teriors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the  tribes  of  the  desert ;  pal 
aces,  prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman  youth,  the  houses  of  pious 
families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  exciting  incident ;  everything  is  ani. 
mated,  vivid  and  glowing. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

From  the  opening  of  the  volume  to  the  very  close  the  reader's  interest 
will  be  kept  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  novel  will  be  pronounced  by  all 
one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  day. — Boston  Pott. 

"  Bcn-Hur  "  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is  laid, 
and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  realize  the 
nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Roman  life  at 
Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un 
wonted  interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional  novel 
and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  delightful  books.  It  is  as  real  and 
warm  as  life  itself,  and  as  attractive  as  the  grandest  and  most  heroic 
chapters  of  history. — Indianapolis  Journal. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

»  The  above  work  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  nny  part  of  the  United 
State*,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DUE   ON   THE   LAST   DATE 
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